


out beyond our mistakes

by sirisusblack, wishfulcanadian



Series: i think i'm gonna know you (for a long, long time) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gen, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, POV Harry Potter, POV Pansy Parkinson, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-War, Redemption, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 62,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26465395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirisusblack/pseuds/sirisusblack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wishfulcanadian/pseuds/wishfulcanadian
Summary: Pansy Parkinson is sentenced to one year of community service with a charity of her choice along with a donation of 10,000 galleons to the 'Ministry Recovery Fund'. Harry Potter, ex-Auror, is disillusioned with a government bent on making him a mouthpiece while disregarding his suggestions for real, concrete progress.When Pansy chooses the newly-registered 'The Moony Project' to work for, she never expects the reclusive Boy-Who-Lived to be the non-profit's chairman. Worse, he is hell-bent on doing his best to make her resign.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter
Series: i think i'm gonna know you (for a long, long time) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1923943
Comments: 161
Kudos: 158





	1. The Moony Project

Pansy doesn’t have 10000 galleons.

Her mind whirls as she tries to do the math but she’s always been horrible with numbers and it doesn’t help when her lawyer, whom she owes five hundred galleons to, chatters in her ear non stop about their _achievement._

She would’ve kneed the man in the groin if there weren't any witnesses.

She gazes at her bracelet and wonders for how much she can sell it to Burke, then disregards the idea completely, since she’d probably get out with another thousand galleons in her debt book.

“Mr. Kovalkov?” she cuts in, pasting a smile she’s perfected over the years on her face. “I need to use the lavatory instantly. Do you mind waiting for me here?”

He shakes his head, his eyes traveling through the lobby, probably wondering if he can find another client for himself here while he waits.

Pansy drops her cloak in the trash on her way out of the Ministry, her heart twisting thinking about the ten galleons she paid for it.

She’d learned how to hide in the shadows in the Muggle world, since the war ended, from various personal experiences.

First rule is to always wear sunglasses, because she’s been told over and over again that her eyes –and her nose- are very expressive and they can always tell when she’s thinking about murder.

Second rule is to always have a coffee in her hand and to her delight, it comes in different temperatures and flavours. People tend not to bother you when you grasp like you’re trying to cure a hangover.

Third rule is to drink the worries away.

And repeat the cycle.

When she stumbles into her apartment after five or six bars and far more drinks than that, she almost slips to the floor, because Godric, a weasley-red furball with sharp claws and long whiskers, decides it’s the best moment to jump on Rowena, who lets out a piercing meow to show her displeasure.

“That’s nice,” she drawls, then holds up a finger when she hears herself.

“Not,” she corrects, “Not nice at all, Salazar.”

I should’ve thought it through before I named them, she thinks.

Pansy can’t point a finger to a single moment in her life and say, “This. This is the moment everything went to shit.” But deciding to name her pets after the founders were one of them, for sure. History repeats itself, they say. She’d been an idiot to ignore this.

She laughs when she thinks her life is quite similar to Potter’s hair. She’s a funny girl, at least. She doesn’t know how Potter, Weasley, and Granger - or was it Potter, Granger-Weasley, and Granger-Weasley now? Daphne had told her the last time she visited Bulgaria that Potter's friends were having a shotgun wedding’- survive the dullness of their own minds. Doesn’t know how it helps when they always hang out together, since they’re all lame in their own ways. It’s like pouring warm, murky water on oatmeal and adding an ancient book on goblin wars as topping.

She brings Potter’s hair to the forefront of her vision and tries to find a way to tame that, but ditches the metaphor when she decides there’s nothing that would untangle that mess. She doesn’t need to demoralise herself than she already is.

Maybe her life is a long road in the wilderness, and she’s there all alone. She doesn’t know how wide the road is, or whether she’s heading to the right direction because she’s always been blind, and afraid to move from where she’s been left as a child. When she tries to step to the right, her foot meets the air. When she steps to the left, it’s icy water.

One day, she flips a coin and steps to the right, falling off the cliff and suddenly there is a fucking crowd watching her like a bunch of vultures as she holds on to the last branch to keep from falling into an endless pit, her palms bleeding and raw. No one lends a hand or grabs her wrist but there are many who try to poison her tree’s roots.

Pansy has pulled herself up back to the road but she’s standing there on her tiptoes, and everyone’s throwing something in her way as she tries to pick a direction.

And she’s so, so exhausted. So exhausted that she curls into herself until her knees meet her chest, right in front of her door.

***

Pansy wakes up to see Godric sniffing her hair, which smells faintly of vomit and cigarette smoke. She forces herself to remember if she’s actually thrown up yesterday, or worse, if someone else’s vomit somehow ended up in her hair.

How the mighty have fallen.

“A bloody year,” she tells Godric when he balks after a particularly strong sniff.

Once the words are out of her mouth, the severity of the situation finally catches up on her and she shoots up sitting. “Bloody hell,” she groans. “Three hundred hours and ten thousand galleons!”

Godric puts his head into her hand, and she pats him distractedly, then squints at the cat. “What did you do, Godric?” she demands.

Godric is only pleasant when he’s done something to Rowena.

When he doesn’t respond -and Pansy is disappointed once again by their lack of learning English, it’s a universal language- she pulls herself to her feet to find Rowena, the world tilting dangerously before she balances herself with a hand on the wall. She becomes aware of her aching back and neck, and her muddy shoes that are still on her feet.

She finds Rowena huddled into Salazar’s wings in her bedroom, and she lets a whine out when she spots Pansy. She grabs the cat from Salazar’s clutches, earning a harsh nibble on her fingers. She sighs loudly when she spots two teeth marks on her left ear.

“One year,” she informs the two in front of her, and Salazar turns his shrewd eyes on her. “You’re going to have to learn to like each other.” She pauses and lets the words sink in.

“Where is Helga?” she asks Salazar, with narrowed eyes. Today is Salazar’s turn to deliver letters.

Salazar tilts his chin up and turns his head to side, and she heaves a loud breath in defeat.

It takes her a few minutes to get he’d been imitating her. She’s proud.

***

Harry wakes up to a bucket of cold water being doused upon him. 

He’s up in an instant, jumping barefoot to the floor, drawing his wand from his belt holster and pointing it at the offender. Even without his glasses, there is no mistaking the blurry figure of his House Elf. Nor does he _need_ his glasses to tell him that Kreacher is upset. Very. 

_Shit,_ he thinks and plops back on the bed, a dull ache forming between his eyes as the memories of last night slowly surface.

“Master is late!” the elf croaks. He vanishes the bucket and hands Harry his glasses from the night stand. “Master needs to get ready, but there is no more than an hour! Kreacher is trying and trying to wake Master up, but - “

“Alright, that’s enough,” Harry says, and Kreacher shuts up. His whole head is pounding now, and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. He blindly reaches for Fabian’s old watch tucked under his pillow, battered but still somehow functional, and chances a look at the time. 

He blanches.

“I’m late,” he says stupidly, causing Kreacher to sniff in derision. “It’s past noon!”

“Kreacher definitely be warning Master last night,” the elf replies accusingly, crossing his arms on his chest. “Master, like always, be ignoring Kreacher’s advice.”

Harry rolls his eyes at that. 

He - technically, it was Montague - had filed all the documents needed, dotted the ‘i’s’ and crossed the ‘t’s’ yesterday evening, officially registering ‘The Moony Project’ as a charity, The culmination of over a year’s efforts had given him such a thrill that when Montague had suggested a celebratory drink, he had readily agreed and grabbed Percy on their way out from the Ministry. In the fifteen minutes it took for the party of three to Apparate home, change into Muggle clothes, and Floo into The Leaky Cauldron, Percy - the bloody gossip - had told George and Ron, who had been chatting with Neville and Parvati at Wheezes, and by the time the group decided to retire for the night at 3 in the morning, Harry had been Muggle pub hopping with over half the DA (plus Montague, his former schoolmate and lawyer, and Percy) all night. 

He still doesn’t know how he made it to Grimmauld without leaving a splinched limb behind in Piccadilly. 

None of that matters now, though, because Hermione had convinced him that the best way to introduce ‘The Moony Project’ to the Wizarding public was by way of a press conference, which he had foolishly agreed to. A press conference which was scheduled at half past one, barely an hour from now. A press conference he had conveniently ignored - despite Kreacher telling him otherwise - to get sloshed with school friends. On a Tuesday night. 

_Fuck._

“If Master is finished thinking his thoughts,” Kreacher interjects with a pointed look at the gold watch. Harry nods and runs a hand through his hair, idly wondering if he’d have the time to style it into something resembling refined.

“I can still make it, Kreacher,” Harry assures the elf with a confidence he doesn’t feel. “If I jump into the shower now, I can get dressed _and_ have lunch with ten minutes to spare before the reporters arrive.”

Kreacher lets out a long suffering sigh. 

“An elf can hope, Master.”

***

Kreacher, that bastard, is right. 

Harry had overestimated the time he had, and had fruitlessly tried to use some Sleakeazy’s, which had caused his hair to flatten lifelessly, emphasizing the rather boxy look of his face. So Harry had showered again, scrubbing twice as hard to get his grandfather’s potion out of his hair, and just let it poof up on his head like a dark, frizzy cloud after finding it unable to style. 

By the time he slides down the barrister and rushes to lunch, barely minutes left before he has to entertain the press, Krecher pauses from clearing Andromeda’s empty plate from before her and fixes him with a scowl.

“Hi, Andy,” he says and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, ignoring Kreacher with practised ease. “You ate already?”

“You were taking too long,” she replies and pats his hand as he sits next to her. A bowl of minestrone appears before him with a silver spoon on a napkin, the Black family crest gleaming on both. “You don’t look half-bad.”

Which was Andy’s way of saying he looked put together. 

“Thanks,” Harry says, after swallowing a spoonful of the soup. He vaguely points at the huge binder she was going though. “Anything new?”

She purses her lips at that. 

“Barry Knox is claiming lost shipment, and wants to know if we can give him another week.”

“It’s the full moon in twelve days,” he says, irritated at the inept contractor who was in charge of procuring the ingredients for the Wolfsbane Potion. “Tell him we need it in four days, or we’re withholding his latest invoice.”

“Yes, and if he can’t ship to Terry Boot in four days, I believe you’ll be dealing with our furry friends’ disappointment in person?”

Harry sighs. It had been a journey to hell and back, trying to convince werewolves to register for the support network program with their names and Floo addresses for the monthly supply of Wolfsbane. Many hadn’t been registered with the Ministry’s Werewolf Registry for fear of becoming social pariahs, and worried over Harry’s proximity to the Minister of Magic considering it was illegal for a werewolf to not be registered and the punishment included upto five years in Azkaban. Even Harry’s public resignation from the Ministry had not assuaged their concerns.

“Fine, we’ll give him his bloody week. Terry’s already modified the dosage requirements to only thrice a week, anyway,” he says and takes a moment to finish his lunch, opting to slurp directly from the bowl after casting a Cooling Charm on it. “What else?”

“Lavina Crouch doesn’t want to be one of our trustees anymore,” Andy informs him, rather unhappily. The late Crouch Sr’s elder sister was unmarried and had inherited her brother’s sizable vaults. “She writes that she’s got a better platform elsewhere.”

“Does she say where?”

“Where else?” Andy replies and gives him a look which he takes to mean that the answer should be obvious to him.

A tense moment transpires between them. 

“You must be joking,” he says finally, and stares at her with growing horror. “She’s joining the Malfoy’s Trust?!”

“ _Narcissa’s_ Trust,” Andy corrects him. “She is, yes. And taking away her twenty thousand galleons with her, too.”

“Fucking hell,” he swears and pinches his forehead in dismay. “I mean this with all due respect Andromeda, but your sister’s a fucking bitch.”

Andy smiles at him grimly. 

“She’s always been competitive with me.”

“I still don’t understand how she found out you were my co-chair,” Harry complains. He - well, Arthur had advised him so - had been waiting for the right time to reveal Andy’s involvement, considering she was popular in her own right as the mother of a war hero. Not to mention that her maiden name generated quite an interest, disowned or not. That Mrs Malfoy had figured it out months ahead and had launched a charity of her own to rub against her sister’s nose felt to Harry that he would likely end up as the tennis ball the Black sisters volleyed back and forth. 

“Don’t underestimate my sister’s resources, Harry,” Andy warns. “The Malfoys have always been good with keeping people in their pockets.”

“Wish we had that kind of money,” he mentions, and Andy huffs. It’s a variation of the same conversation they have had several times in the past, with Harry worrying endlessly about how the vast amounts of Potter and Black gold had _still_ left them short on funds when spending for the next few years were factored in; Andy spent most of her time assuring him that they could fundraise. 

Harry checks his watch and finds he only has a minute and thirty seconds left, causing him a brief moment of panic when he finds his outer robes missing.

“Kreacher!” he calls and in an instant, the house elf appears. “Can you fetch my robes, please?”

“The green ones, Master?” Kreacher asks hopefully. Harry debates for a second if he should say no out of principle, but nods, earning a satisfied smile. “Very good, Master. Kreacher will be back.”

“By the way,” Andy says as Kreacher reappears and helps Harry put on the Slytherin green robes with stylish bronze trimmings. “I pulled out three G’s to pay Kentwhistle Events for next month’s gala.”

“That’s fine,” Harry says, distracted as he looks at his own reflection in the conjured mirror, teeth bared and all. There had been an incident a few years ago when an unflattering picture of him with spinach stuck to his teeth had made it to the front page of nearly all wizarding papers. “Three hundred galleons?”

In the mirror, Harry sees Andy making a face.

“Three thousand.”

“You’re joking,” Harry says, and whips around, letting the mirror fall to the ground and hearing it shatter into pieces. Someone would vanish it later. “Three thousand galleons as an _advance_? How much is the whole thing costing us?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Andy says, a little blasé, flipping to the next pages on her binder and not looking at him. “It’ll be worth it when we fundraise five times the amount.”

“No, I _am_ worrying about it right now,” he says firmly and walks over to her. “Andy, we’re supposed to talk about these things before you go and do it.”

“I did try yesterday night,” she says, still not lifting her head to look him in the face. “Kreacher told me you were out partying. So I made the executive decision.” 

Harry sucks in a breath, trying to keep his voice down, and not let this dissolve into a shouting match. They had had these rows before, mostly revolving around raising Teddy, and Harry usually felt terrible when he went to bed. He opens his mouth to speak but a bell gong sounds in the dining room, rattling the dresser and the expensive china inside - an indication that the first of his guests had arrived at the library. 

“Fine,” he bites out instead, swallowing his argument and shelving it for later. “Next time, will you _please_ talk to me before you spend a thousand galleons or more on a party?”

“Oh, there won’t be a next time, don’t worry,” she says, quickly scribbling a note on one of the letters she was looking at. Harry frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“I took the liberty of posting an advert with the Wizarding Job Office,” she tells him, finally pushing her papers away, and laying her reading glasses on top of it. “For an executive assistant.”

He scratches the back of his neck and another bell gong sounds. 

“Why?”

“Because you’re terrible at responding to my letters, you anger too easily, _and_ need I say that you’re terrible at responding to _any_ letters?” 

“I’m not that bad,” he says defensively. “I just like to take my time, and think things through.”

Andy raises an amused eyebrow.

“Hence the delay in accepting Hector Fawley’s five thousand galleon donation. Delay, by what, a month? He was mighty insulted about it, too.”

“I was in Provence when he sent it,” Harry argues. “It took me weeks to haggle with my customer service rep at the Owl Office to track the owl that had delivered the letter, and backtrack when it was delivered and where.”

“Ah, yes, owl office,” Andy says, snapping her finger like she’s just remembered something. “You don’t even own an owl.”

“I can’t replace Hedwig,” Harry says feebly. “You know I can’t.”

Andy shrugs. 

“Hence, the need for an assistant.”

“Well, I have _you_ to keep me on track,” he replies, and in a flash, rushes to retract the statement because Andy was staring at him dangerously. “I don’t mean like an _assistant_ ; I meant like a, um, person my life depends on?”

“Good save,” she says, but it sounds to Harry like it’s definitely not. “You need someone to keep you up to date, Harry, and I can’t do my job as the other half of this charity if I’m running behind you to tell you every single thing.”

Harry clenches his jaw and looks away from her. It’s not fair to her, he knows it, but the only reason he had survived to adulthood was because he had Hermione and Ron always reminding him of things, and drawing him out of his moods and gently redirecting it to more productive things like studying or the Horcrux Hunt. With both of them doing extremely well at their own jobs, Harry knows he’s become dependent on Andromeda and Kreacher like he’s crippled and they’re his crutches.

It’s clingy and unattractive, but that’s who he’s become since the day he quit as an Auror two years ago. 

“I’m not happy about this,” he says, and Andy smiles, the action softening the sharp lines on her face. She cups his face and finger combs his hair, managing to tame them into artfully messy curls, the action somehow taking away all his fight. 

“You’ll learn to live with it.”

***

Turns out Helga couldn’t even come back from her shift yesterday because she had to fly to Bulgaria and back. She looks tired, cold and skinnier than Pansy last saw her. It takes a lot of willpower not to go into rage to think she had to fly across the whole continent on an empty stomach, but she knows herself well enough that she’ll probably remember this on her deathbed.

On her list of things to do, which is far too long for her to actually write down, freeing her owls from her parents is at the top. Earning ten thousand galleons comes second. 

She runs a finger along her feather lightly, as she devours her large meal, ignoring Salazar’s glare and longing glances at her meat. Helga is usually a mild mannered bird, and generous when it comes to sharing her food, so her appetite tells Pansy a lot. 

She reads through the ten page letter her father sent her with her eye twitching in the corner, skipping the first three pages scolding her about ditching Mr. Kovalkov at the ministry, the tattling bastard, she’s going to fire him the second she sees him. She considers burning the papers first, annoyed that he knows about the charity and the amount she’ll have to give away already. 

Each charity her father listed is more distasteful than the last. And she can bet her right arm that mother didn’t allow father to suggest Narcissa’s Trust. Pansy wouldn’t even consider that with a ten-foot broomstick even if it brings her all the money she needs with a nice little velvet-lined pouch right now.

She half wonders if he does it on purpose, to drive her back to Bulgaria. Maybe he’s trying to show her she’s not cut for this world. Not cut for hard work. Maybe this is him apologising in his own twisted way and calling her back to being her beautiful, wealthy, spoiled daughter.

She entertains the idea for a second as her eyes roam over her bedroom but bile rises in her throat and she barely reaches the bathroom in time to the contents of her stomach. 

Rowena and Godric run after her thinking she’s going to feed them but figure out there’s a problem and keep rubbing against her back as she tries to spit out the vile taste in her mouth and get her breath back. She feels mildly guilty about the situation, since the smell has to be far worse for them.

She’s trying to summon her toothbrush and toothpaste wandlessly but she’s hardly any good at it at her best and they only budge which only drives her to get competitive about it, instead of reaching out for it like a normal human. The throbbing in her head is strong enough to make her wonder if skulls can shatter from inside and it doesn’t get any better when she bangs her forehead to the sink when she startles by the bell ringing, causing her to hear her heartbeat in her ears. She silently begs for the intruder to leave in the privacy of her mind but whoever it is, they’re insistent and ring until she swears and gets up to open the door.

It’s her neighbour from upstairs, Margaret. When they first met, Margaret told her she was named after some Muggle minister and when Pansy blurted out, “Never would’ve considered it,”, thinking it’s such an unimaginative way to name a child, Margaret decided to take that as a compliment and to adopt Pansy as her best friend. It worries her a bit that this is what it takes to be Margaret’s best friend, because either Margaret is very, very lonely or this Thatcher woman is truly atrocious.

Since then, she’s learned a fair bit about this lady -mostly her love life and her fashion sense, which Margaret adores- but she’s decided it’s a lot easier to accept whatever Margaret says and nod along.

Besides, it comes with food. 

“I heard you come in tonight and thought this might be helpful,” she says, her voice still igniting a flicker of shock in her after three years. Margaret has broad shoulders and thick fingers that look like they can wring your neck in one move but her voice belongs to a five year old girl.

Pansy accepts the pot gratefully, her senses flooded by the smell of chicken soup and she says, “Merlin bless Margaret Thatcher.”

Margaret beams and leans on the door, hand on her hip and she cocks an eyebrow. Pansy, however grateful she is, is still nauseous and the pot is actually burning her hand, and her cats are chasing after each other again. She can’t let them get away with breaking vases anymore, since she needs every knut she can get her hands on.

“Wild night?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” she says truthfully, not even trying to bring back the lost memories. When Margaret straightens up in interest, she accepts she’ll have to do her worst and invite her in if she wants to keep her fingers. “Why don’t you come in?”

Alarm flashes across her face and Pansy has to bite into her lips to keep from smirking. The second thing she learned about Margaret was that she’s absolutely terrified of cats, Rowena reminding her too much of the fat cat that used to sit on her face when she was around six. 

She laughs nervously, and takes a step back. “You go ahead,” she jerks her thumb towards the stairs, “I have to get ready for my shift.”

“Alright,” she says mildly, her foot already starting to close the door behind her. “Thank you for the soup,” she yells after she disappears.

Pansy has a kitchen and a table but she’s not the queen of Slytherin anymore, Narcissa is not watching her to decide if she’ll let Pansy marry her precious son, and there are no portraits to tattle on her. So she puts the pot on the floor, sits cross legged and Accios a spoon.

***

It does help with her aching stomach but it doesn’t solve the one year volunteer work or ten thousand galleons. And even if she asks, Margaret won’t be able to help her.

It’s weird for her to have friends who don't have too much in their vaults to spend. She finds it makes it more valuable when they give her things, especially if it’s a pot of meal after a hard day.

She lays back on the cool floor, and allows all four of her pets to settle on a limb, each one on their favourite choice. She wants to freeze the moment right there, with vomit in her hair and her bathroom, her fridge completely empty, with her last ten galleons in her bag but surrounded with warmth and love. 

She could ask Daphne, or Draco (the bastard has more money than he deserves) or even Theo to borrow some money but she’s had a decent meal just now, so she lets the thought pass by without settling in, before she has to run to the bathroom again.

She laughs, her belly rising with each breath when the reality hits her over her head with a bang.

Weasleys are now a _thousand times_ richer than her.

But this enlightenment still doesn’t make her more inclined to ask for help. When the time comes, she’ll say she didn’t borrow a single knut from anyone. Even if she ends up in a grave at thirty years old from a burnout.

  
  


The thought provokes her to get up and take a shower, and give a quick clean to her bathroom but the motivation it brought is long gone when she emerges. She gets inside her cheap cotton covers, which is far more comfortable than the silk sheets she’s used to and stares at the previously white wall, contemplating her choices.

She can leave Britain and live as a Muggle in somewhere far away, somewhere warm but not as a witch, since she knows the ministry will not cease to follow her if she tries to live in the wizarding world. But the thought of living in a lie for the rest of her life sounds as uninviting as going back to her parents in Bulgaria. She considers accepting the bloody prison sentence but it makes her blood boil because Draco fucking Malfoy, who had literally been a Death Eater got away with community service and fifty thousand galleons and she refuses to spend seven years in Azkaban, dementors or not.

She doesn’t know what she wants but she knows what she doesn’t want. When she realises that she takes out the list ministry gave her out of her bag, of “Ministry approved charities” and crosses out the ones that matches with her father’s recommendations, her heart singing with each splash of ink.

That leaves her with three options in the end: Narcissa’s Trust, SPEW and The Moony Project.

It’s not a very hard choice, at least.

***

In Harry’s opinion, the press conference had been an unmitigated success. 

Others - Andy - might have issues with a few answers where he had rambled on a bit too much and possibly made things worse when he had to walk back his words, but whatever. It’s _done_ , and he hadn’t set a reporter on fire or force transfigured a columnist into their Animagus form and locked them into a bottle. 

It’s nearly three when everything is wrapped up, and the reporters had been mostly civil and respectful to him, - which shouldn’t be a surprise because Andy vetted them thoroughly - and if he were being honest, it _was_ good seeing Xeno Lovegood and Betty Braithwite amongst the press gaggle. He would have kept chatting to them about the recently concluded Wizengamot session - off the record, of course - if Kreacher hadn’t appeared in the library, setting a plate of tea and sandwiches on the teapoy, shooting him a covert look as if to ask ‘Are you out of your mind? Why are you talking to the press willingly? Don’t you have somewhere to be?’

Then he had remembered that it was his turn to pick Teddy up from his primary school, and had rushed to the fireplace, leaving his guests to awkwardly nibble on their cucumber sandwiches under the strict gaze of Phineas Nigellus’ portrait, which Harry had moved to the library from one of the guest bedrooms several years ago when he had more permanently moved into Grimmauld. 

His godson cuts a pathetic figure as he sits alone on a brightly coloured bench in the school playground, head bent as he fashions a stick figure out of the candy wrappers from the humbugs Kreacher had taken to sneaking into Teddy’s lunch bag when Andy wasn’t paying attention. 

“Ready to go home, mate?” Harry says by way of greeting Teddy who shrugs. Harry stares at the dried tear tracks on Teddy’s heart-shaped face, and his forehead creases in worry. “You don’t seem very happy, Ted. Did something happen?”

On cue, Teddy’s sandy brown hair begins to darken, causing Harry to nervously surround his godson, hoping no other kid in the playground has paid attention. 

“Nothing,” Teddy replies, still sullen even as he puts on his backpack, and handing Harry his empty lunch bag. “Let’s go.”

Harry raises his eyebrows at the abrupt dismissal, but places a hand on Teddy’s back as they walk back to Andy’s house, only fifteen minutes from the Bishop Road primary that Teddy attended. Harry had offered Andy and Teddy their own rooms at Grimmauld, but Andy had refused, claiming she was going to live in the house Ted Tonks bought for her until the day she died. Harry privately thought that Andy would jump willingly in front of the Knight Bus before she agreed to live in a house that reminded her of the family that had turned its back on her when she had needed it most.

Sometimes, Harry would bring Snuffles with him to pick up Teddy, and the boy and dog - which Harry had rescued as a motherless puppy outside the Indian store down Chapel Street barely a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts; Hermione liked to call the black deerhound as his emotional support animal - would cause such a scene walking back home that Harry would have his wand at the ready in case Teddy accidentally enlarged the dog to ride on it. Even without the dog, Teddy would be chattering away in the way five-year-olds do, weaving one topic into another until you begin to tune it out. 

Today, though, not even Harry offering to buy candied apples from a roadside hawker perked Teddy up, which led Harry to wonder if he should check with the class teacher. 

Andy opens the door of the ancient byzantine house with a bright smile for her grandson which slowly dims as Teddy rushes in without sparing her a hug.

“Did you say something to him?” she demands, following Harry into the house. 

“Of course not!” he says, dropping on the leather couch that clashes violently with the rest of the rustic decor. “He was upset when I picked him up.”

“Were you late?” 

“No, I wasn’t,” Harry says quickly, sneaking a still warm brandysnap from the coffee table, deftly manoeuvring his hand from Andy’s slap. 

“Harry,” she says, warning in her voice. 

“Andromeda,” Harry mimics, biting into the paper thin biscuit that’s the size of a galleon. Andy doesn’t like hers to be rolled up into a cylinder.

Andy stares at him as he stretches his legs and munches on his biscuit, unhurried and savoring every perfect bite, and sighs. 

“How did the press conference go?” she asks, sliding her legs under her as she helps herself to a brandysnap. 

“It was okay,” he says, and licks his fingers to get rid of the stickiness from the syrup. “I didn’t destroy the project, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Andy snorts. 

“That wasn’t, but I’m glad to know that I can count on you to behave without supervision - Kreacher’s or mine.”

“Doesn’t matter if you can count on me or not, does it? You’re getting me a handler anyway,” he replies, a little testy as he’s reminded of lunch. 

“An assistant,” Andy corrects.

“Same thing,” he shrugs, and elects to stare at a corner in the ceiling where a spider valiantly tries to weave a web. 

“It’s your charity, too, Harry,” she says, voice quiet. “If you tell me to not bring someone else, I’ll do it.”

_It’s a trap,_ Harry reminds himself before his mouth did something stupid like say ‘yes’. If he asked Andy to take down the ad, she would bring up the lack of an assistant every time Harry didn’t reply to a letter or forgot to authorize funds. If he went along with her plan, she would no doubt hire the first competent applicant based on the form they filled and call it a day. There was no winning. 

It takes a minute for the answer to come to Harry. 

“I have a few conditions,” he says, and Andy isn’t quick to hide the surprise that flashes across her face. “We need a face-to-face interview.”

“You’re yanking my wand now,” Andry says, incredulous. “This is a volunteer position. An interview is too much!”

“We’ll pay them then,” Harry says, waving her concerns away with a sharp flick of his wrist. 

“With what money?” Andy questions him pointedly, earning a huff of irritation in response. 

“I thought you were going to fundraise?” he asks her, a touch of peevishness sneaking into his tone. She lifts her hands up in surrender. 

“Any more ‘conditions’?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he continues briskly. “The role needs to go to someone who is struggling - financially, or otherwise. We need to hire someone who _no_ one would be willing to hire.”

“I can work with that,” Andy says, nodding at him to go on. Harry shifts to face her directly. 

“Finally, I want someone who wants to work for The Moony Project and _not_ Harry Potter.” Andy opens her mouth to argue. “Non-negotiable!”

She closes it in an instant and Harry foolishly believes he’s won this round. 


	2. The Candidate

Pansy has a routine that spans the last four years of her life. Had, to be exact. She had two -at times, three- jobs, and absolutely no days off between them to dwell on the state of things. She is -used to be- banned from working in the magical world since an anonymous campaign got five thousand signatures, demanding her trial, surpassing any campaigns that were held in Britain ever. 

(On the bright side, “Potter for Minister” campaign got three thousand signatures before Potter gave an interview to Xeno Lovegood, saying “Not in a million years.” So she’s got the record.)

Her parents grabbed her by the arm and took her to Bulgaria when the news reached them, after Gregory Goyle was sent to Azkaban. Funnily enough, they learned long before Pansy did because she was busy lounging under the sun in Spain. Pansy was grateful at first. Living in a society where at least five thousand people wanted you in the prison didn’t sound pleasant to her, and she didn’t feel safe in the streets when she started getting random letters from people she’s never heard about.

So she went gladly, cheerfully. She took the NEWTs there, at the embassy where his father held the exam for her and her only, and started law school like many Parkinsons before her without any interviews. It didn’t cross her mind to ask how it happened because it was how it happened in Pansy Parkinson’s life.

But then Harry Potter decided to bulldoze into her life by coming to Bulgaria to watch World Cup Qualifiers, with Weasley and Granger, of all people in the world, ruining her chances to seduce Viktor Krum. 

And her whole life there.

It started a chain of events, but she still doesn’t know the exact moment the first domino fell.

Was it when she was photographed glaring at Granger hugging Krum? Was it when Potter exclaimed ‘Is that bloody Parkinson over there?’ with complete disgust and rage on his face? Or when someone from the British Ministry of Magic reached the Bulgarian Ministry, calling her a ‘fugitive of law’? 

Pansy left after that, taking Salazar and Helga with her without even waiting for their sham to come to light, leaving her father to deal with the mess. It was his bloody mess, in the first place. 

She doesn’t know how it resolved, or why her father decided to write to her after three years. Nonetheless, she has a few ideas. Mr. Kovalkov likes to hear his own voice.

She hasn’t read a single newspaper since she came back to England. Or she did, if she’s completely truthful, but only the Muggle ones. She enjoyed the parts about celebrities’ love lifes, sometimes imagining herself into some scenarios. She usually flipped the sports section after staring at the photos longingly but she never had the patience to watch sports, let alone something as dull as football.

She broke into her family house and stole anything that she could get away with and sold everything, ending up in her current apartment. She didn’t dare use Confounding Charms because she’s heard the Ministry has been keeping up with those sorts of spells since the war ended. She stuck to basics, and found it made life much easier somehow. It was a lot less complicated to just put the egg in a pot to boil than to do it with magic. 

Rowena and Godric found their ways into her apartment, and she didn’t have the heart to shoo them out, which turned out to be one right decision among many wrongs. She didn’t allow anything outside her little, pathetic life to get inside her sight, bent her head down and worked.

It didn’t take too long for Ministry workers to find her, but long enough that they were embarrassed and frustrated. She had enough money at that point to hire an attorney. Only, she never thought the court process would take this long. Or that an attorney would make things worse. Maybe she shouldn’t have hired a Bulgarian one. But it’s quite hard to regret that decision among many others.

Pansy has learned to choose which battles to fight.

***

Salazar leaves to bring her job application to The Moony Project, and he returns with a reply half an hour later. Her stomach drops to realise whoever her future boss is, they live quite near to her, considering Salazar always takes a stroll around the neighbourhood before he comes back.

“From now on, you’ll take your stroll before you take my letter to my boss, alright?” she says, waiting for him to hoot his approval. “We cannot let them know we are near or they’d be on us every single moment.”

As she tears the envelope open and reads the first few lines, she realises she never gave a thought about what this charity was about. The tone of the letter is so sweet that her teeth aches. 

Andy, she mouths. She’s never heard of this person.

Not too late though, if she wants to bail. They’re actually calling her in for an interview. She lets out an undignified snort. “Who the fuck arranges an interview for a charity job?” she asks her babies and Helga cranes her neck to see the letter. She doesn’t know if she can read but she definitely looks like she can, the smart girl that she is. 

“Tomorrow,” she explains for those who can’t read. She huffs, knotting her hair on top of her head, smiling at herself in the mirror. “I should be the one to ask an interview.”

Out of nowhere, the four of them still and turn their eyes upstairs, instead of expressing their agreement. Pansy strains to hear something as well but it’s only horns and people chattering in the street below for her less sensitive ears. “What is it?” she demands. “Is she making food? Does she have guests?” 

She will have to go up in some hours after they’re gone, to avoid having to sit with Margaret’s weird friends. She knows there will be enough leftovers to feed her for a week straight anyway. Margaret always overprepares when someone comes to her house because she thinks it’s the utmost disrespect to guests to leave them hungry. Pansy is glad Margaret can never come into her house because of Rowena.

She’ll just have to go and ask for Margaret’s _help_ for her interview tomorrow. Margaret will probably try to dress her up in her favoured Minister style, and Pansy decides it could be a good idea. The woman was a minister after all.

Three hours later she hears the upstairs door opening and closing, and she assumes whoever the guests were, has left. She runs upstairs after giving her ten minutes to clean up and rings the bell, faking a nonchalant body language. 

Turns out Margaret came back ten minutes ago and had eaten at a restaurant before that. 

“Did you or did you not hear people with your own two ears?”

“No,“ she says, holding up her hand when Margaret rolls her eyes. “But my animals did, which is far more scarier because that means they are professionals,” she says instead, probably for the fifth time. 

Margaret shoots her an exasperated look. “Why did you want to talk to me anyway?”

Pansy slaps a hand on her forehead, “Of course. Well, I have a job interview tomorrow.”

Margaret sucks in a breath and beams, “I have just the outfit for you, love,” she says, eyes going misty either with emotional overflow or with visuals of Pansy dressing like Margaret Thatcher. “You’ll be so gorgeous.”

Pansy regrets ever coming here upon seeing the frantic expression on her face but smiles wide, and settles on the sofa. She can always ditch the clothes.

Margaret asks her nonstop about this new job as she examines each of her clothes with squinted eyes, her forehead scrunched up in concentration because Pansy has been working in the same place since they met. Unfortunately, the conversation grows more awkward with each question because it becomes more and more obvious that Pansy doesn't know anything about this job.

“When are you going?” 

“They’ll let me know tomorrow morning.”

“Who’re you going to meet?”

“I’ll meet them there.”

“What’s the position you’re applying for?”

“They’ll tell me the positions that are available.”

“How much are you going to get paid?”

“We’ll discuss it there.”

“What’s the company about?”

“It’s about moons.” 

“Where is the company?”

“Very close actually.”

“Pansy, do you need me to come with you tomorrow?” she asks in the end, worry etched into her features, the suits she brought out her wardrobe forgotten on the floor. 

She sighs and is surprised to find she wishes she could accept the offer. She doesn’t want to go there all alone. She doesn’t want to come across people who hate her guts. She needs someone who likes her, who’ll have her back when someone whispers profanities when she passes by.

“I got this,” she lies through her teeth. 

“Should I have…” she pauses. “Should I have some booze and food ready just in case?”

Pansy deflates. “I would owe you a big one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Margarets voice cuts the air and Pansy raises her eyes to stare at her friend. Then she sighs, throwing herself next to Pansy, “You’ll always be the best friend I ever had. Friends do this without waiting for a payback. It’s nothing.”

It’s everything. 

“You want to watch telly?” 

Pansy shakes her head and grabs two random pieces off the floor. “I’m still tired as hell from yesterday’s fiasco. Have to get my beauty sleep for the interview.” 

“You took two skirts.”

She stops in her tracks and puts one of them on the armchair carefully as she does when she doesn't want to disturb Rowena and be the victim of her fury. “I couldn’t choose between them.”

“Just leave them all, Pansy,” she says, “not everyone can pull this off.”

***

She gets the letter in the middle of the night by a shabby owl, looking like it hadn’t been fed for days. She sighs and summons some of her owls’ food, cringing at their loud protest. “You two are getting comfortable here,” she hisses.

The owl nibbles on the meat very politely that she half wants to steal it. She adores animals with manners.

“Do you see that, you absolute commoners?”

She feels the urge to adopt the animal surge inside her but she can’t actually steal someone’s pet. She rubs a finger along the head and whispers, “If they don’t treat you right, you know where to find me.”

The owl leaves and she settles down to read the letter. The building is familiar and only ten minute walk away from her house, which is about a one minute fly for Salazar. She really needs to have a strict talk with him not to waste time. “We’ll talk about this,” she waves the letter in the air. 

She is called for a ten am meeting, which allows her to stroll around the neighbourhood, which is strangely nicer than her apartment would suggest. There are trees lining the sidewalk, and small cafes that are run by actual Londoners. She passes by Harry the Baker, and waves at him, ignoring him yelling after her that his son is back, and he’d like to have dinner with Pansy. Her choice of restaurant. 

Pansy is intrigued for a moment because it’s been so long she’s had a decent meal in a nice restaurant but she doesn't allow it to show in her steps. Been there, done that. Henry the son of Harry the Baker is absolutely dull.

She chooses to sit in the cafe that makes absolutely the best crepes in the city, mostly because it’s affordable and doesn’t taste like cardboard. The patron doesn’t even deign to come ask for her order because Pansy had asked her to just bring her black coffee with her plain crepes whenever she sees her, because the toppings here are vile. 

Across the street, there’s a new cafe that opened a few months ago, but she’s never had the chance to try it. She doesn’t really enjoy people watching, having found that people tend to stare back, only for the wrong reasons. But there’s something awfully pleasing about the beige interior and the small pots of flowers all around the floor that she finds she doesn’t even mind when her eyes meet some stranger’s every once in a while. 

She puts her sunglasses on and settles more comfortably in the itchy chair. The people who frequent the cafe seem to be well-off, or maybe it’s a frequent dating spot. She can see couples having a chat over their breakfast, and for a weak, pathetic moment her heart aches for it. 

She knows herself. She’s always been a girl who was entranced by boys who wouldn’t look at her. During her teenage years, it was either Draco, or sometimes Theo, who never expressed interest in anyone before, who ran off after the war and married a Muggleborn girl he met during the Triwizard Tournament. It’s quite romantic, if Pansy allows herself to be honest. 

After that, it was Krum, who disliked her solely for his strong belief that she was involved in dark arts, which was so absurd that Pansy didn’t even think he was serious in his concerns until she came back to England and realised he was, upon reading his bitchy _no comment_ when he was asked about her disappearance.

_No Pansy for you, you brainless boor,_ she thinks with derision, tossing her head back to drink the last drops of her coffee. She meets her own reflection on the glass, stained with rain droplets from the night before, and immediately drops the frown. She doesn’t want to get wrinkles prematurely on top of everything.

She flips her wrist to check the hour, but it’s one of those things she’s sold. 

***

She scowls as the clock hits 10 a.m., and they fail to call her in. She keeps still and tries not to fidget because after watching countless hours of prank shows with Margaret, she developed a strange fear of being filmed. The background laughing noise echoes in her mind as the clock ticks mockingly.

She bristles when she glances at her reflection in the mirror behind her. She had to run after realising she had only five minutes left for the interview, ruining her hair in the wind. It’s not the ten minutes of extra waiting time, it’s that they wouldn’t hire her if she was the one ten minutes late. It doesn’t placate her worries about her next year. 

When she’s called in, she smooths her expression and fluffs up her hair before she knocks on the door, waiting for the okay to get inside. Instead the door flips open to reveal a woman sitting behind a rather small desk, appraising her with large eyes. 

“Miss Parkinson,” she gets up to shake her hand. Pansy worries for a moment that her hands are sweaty but even if this woman is grossed out by it she doesnt show it. “My apologies for the delay. I had a bit of an issue with my grandson.”

Some of the pressure that has been building leaves her body, and she gives her a wide smile. “No worries, Miss…?”

Surprise flashes across the woman’s face and she wonders if she just put her foot in her mouth. It’s possible that they’ve been introduced before but she’s never been good with remembering faces or names that didn’t immediately catch her attention. 

“Mrs. Tonks,” she shakes it off, “but please call me Andy.”

Pansy keeps her smile on, pretty sure she’s never met this woman before. She doesn’t offer Andy to use her first name. She prefers to keep some distance, after getting too friendly with some of her coworkers and having that blow up in her hands. 

“May I?” she gestures to the chair, and Andy chuckles like she can’t believe herself, taking the seat across her, instead of going behind the desk to establish some power balance like Pansy would’ve done. When she’s the boss, she’ll make sure people know it. 

“I was surprised when you demanded an interview,” Pansy blurts out, tangling her fingers over her knee.

Andy snorts, “Not my idea dear.”

Upon her careless dismissal of something that has bothered her so much, flush spreads across her face. “I thought it had something to do with me, specifically,” she says, not able to keep it in. The worst that can happen is that she ends up working for Mermaids of Wales, cold and wet for a whole year.

Andy’s expression or body language don't reveal anything and Pansy feels queasy. She’d been with these kinds of people since she was born, but she’d been out of practice, finding it’s far less complicated to converse with Muggles. Far less innuendos, power plays or scheming. 

Or maybe it’s because her social circle is too busy trying to feed themselves to sabotage others’ lives just for a quick laugh.

“It has nothing to do with you, specifically,” Andy assures her. “It was one of the demands of my partner. He believes in face to face communication.”

“Alright,” Pansy tries to keep her tone casual, twisting a fallen hair on her index finger. “What would you like to learn about me?”

That earns a smile. “Quite a lot, but in the span of a whole year, I hope.”

“No ‘describe yourself in three words’?”

Andy pauses, her eyes alight with interest, “Where did you hear that?”

She shrugs, “Muggles keep asking that. Makes one wonder if they think people know themselves well.” 

“I think it’s a fair question,” she objects, and in her periphery Pansy sees her quill scratch over the parchment. She’s actually taking note of the most common interview question, Pansy muses.

“Would you like the memorised version or the made up one?” she asks with a saccharine smile when she raises her eyebrows in expectation. 

She is almost sure she sees a flicker of amusement. “The honest one, if it’s possible.”

Stuck up bitch. Clingy, undesired, freeloader. Lonely. Ungrateful. Sordid. Calculating. Selfish. coward.

“Bitter,” she says in the end. “Terrified.”

Andy raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Aren’t we all?”

“Haggler.”

That stops her in her tracks and she leans back like she’s about to enjoy a show. Pansy sincerely hopes it is not at her expense. 

“Fair enough,” she says evenly, her fingers playing in the air like they’re used to touching piano keys. “I should tell you what I expect from you, before we start talking about salary and hours and such.”

“No,” Pansy interjects. “I’m sure you’re aware that I’m drowning in debt, Mrs. Tonks. I can’t let it be something that is swept under the rug. I need to know the terms.” 

“I am aware,” she confirms, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I’m also aware you’re not here _on your own terms._ Excuse me for being tentative before I jump into this.”

“One does what one must do,” she shrugs. “I’m not complaining about my penalty.” Not out loud, at least.

Andy considers this, and jerks her chin towards Pansy. “What do you want?”

“What do you offer?” she shots back, her usual tactic. People tend to give more, out of confusion, if they are the first one to make the offer. 

Andy is visibly surprised, but grabs a pen and paper to scribble on it, sliding it towards Pansy. When she sees the number, Pansy has to swallow three times to hold back her hysterical laugh, not letting her eyes widen because Andy has just offered her two hundred galleons for a month, far more than what she was going to ask for. 

“No way,” she says. “Three hundred.”

Andy blinks. “Do you realise that’s almost what a Ministry employee gets?”

“Yes, but I doubt any of them owes ten thousand galleons to anyone.”

“Two hundred twenty,” she says after a few heartbeats.

“Veela Villas are offerening five hundred,” she sighs, which is not a complete lie, if she accepts her father’s offer.

“Why did you choose us, then, Miss Parkinson? Did you think we had so much money to spare?”

Pansy tilts her to the side and decides to be honest. “I’ve crossed out the options my father found tolerable.”

Andy’s face doesn’t change, watching her without a word for longer than Pansy feels comfortable with.

She messed it up, she is certain. She’ll have to go grovel to Narcissa fucking Malfoy.

But Andy’s face softens after a few tense seconds. “Which ones were left?” 

“The Moony Project,” she says with forced respect, and goes on, spitting out the others. “S.P.E.W. and Narcissa’s Trust.”

Andy laughs, delighted, throwing her head back. the sound filling the room and giving the illusion that the world was a bit grey a moment ago. 

“I did that too, when my father gave me a list of men I could marry,” she says, her eyes twinkling with mirth but her smile sours before she restores it, its light tainted somehow. “The only pureblood left was Arthur Weasley, and he was already dating Molly, so I had no choice but to marry a Muggleborn.”

“He set himself up.”

“True. One last thing,” she leans in to rest her elbows on her knees. “Why not Narcissa’s Trust?”

Pansy thinks the answer is pretty obvious but she answers anyway. People enjoyed hearing her say this. “I’m not waiting for a chance to hop back into my old life.”

“That’s good,” Andy straightens, “no offense but I have the impression that your previous life was miserable.”

An uninhibited laugh bursts out of her mouth and she slaps a hand over it to cover up. “None taken,” she giggles.

Andy claps her hands together and smiles. “You have absolutely no reason to be nervous around me,” she coos, then snaps back to her professional self. “Two hundred twenty Galleons and one percent of every Galleon you fundraise.”

Pansy thinks it over with a finger on her chin, then extends her hand towards Andy, who shakes it with a firm clutch.

“I think we’ve reached an understanding, then.” She slides the papers Pansy has been eyeing since she came in, after filling out the numbers.

Pansy, in her relief, signs every page with gusto, only checking the percentage and her salary. When she’s done she slams the pen on top and entwines her fingers over her belly like she had a fulfilling meal.

“Merlin, I’m truly excited to work with you.”

Andy looks confused for a moment, then she lets out a small sound that indicates she got what’s going on and Pansy’s grin falls off from her face, feeling like everything’s about to go down from there. 

“Oh dear, not me. You’ll be working with Harry mostly,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Though I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other quite often.”

“Harry Griffiths?” she asks tentatively, ignoring the waves of disappointment. Even she heard he was recently retired from Quidditch and that he was famous for his never-ending affairs. She doesn’t really fancy the idea of dealing with heartbroken girlfriends all year.

Andy raises her eyebrows and shakes her head slowly.

“Oh! Harry Zeller then?” 

Heirs to vast fortunes often began a charity or two as pastimes to help with their public image. Pansy doesn’t mind; in another life, perhaps, she would have her own charity or three.

Andy drops the pleasant expression and grimaces, sighing and rubbing the bridge of her nose like Pansy is making her regret her decision to hire her. 

“No,” Pansy stresses out the word, putting every tiny bit of what she’s feeling into it.

“Yes, dear,” she says with just as much force behind her words. 

Pansy leans in, and says with surprising genuinity, “No offense, Andy but I’d rather work for Harry the Baker and marry Henry the son.”

“That’s too bad,” Andy hums.

She sighs loudly, feeling like the world righted itself, melting into her chair. “Thank you for being understanding. I know I’m letting you down-“

“That you signed all these before you’ve read them thoroughly,” she cuts her off, gesturing at the stack of papers in front of Pansy. 

Pansy hesitates, then blurts out. “He hates me.”

Andy doesn’t rush to deny it, and Pansy realises she’d actually been hoping for that. “What are your other options, Miss Parkinson? The charities your father didn’t recommend specifically.”

Pansy feels a blush spread from her ears down to her neck. “I can go work at Narcissa’s Trust,” she bluffs. 

Andromeda leans back and folds her arms. “Go ahead then. I won’t stop you, and I’ll tear this contract into pieces In front of you if you truly wish to work there. That would be a conflict of interest at best.”

And spying, at worst. The words remain unsaid but hang in the air. She fists her hands to keep from grasping her neck to unbutton the top, feeling like she’s being watched by thousands of wizards and witches again, twice in two days.

Back to square one. She’ll have to work under scrutiny of the whole magical Britain when this inevitably gets out, and she’ll have to do that with people that hate her the most, above all. She can already imagine the onslaught of letters and Howlers, and news headings demanding her head like the last four years hasn’t passed. No doubt people are hungry for blood after all this time without a real incident. 

“You have beaten me, Mrs. Tonks.”

She sighs. “I’m not your enemy, dear girl.”

Margaret is a true visionary to offer her that food and booze, Pansy decides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read the news, that's the main idea of this chapter I suppose.
> 
> We hope you like the chapter! <3


	3. Revelations

After she manages to throw herself out of The Moony Project building, Pansy springs into a run, getting lost in sidealleys before she lets out a piercing scream, squatting on the sidewalk. She brings her knees to her chest, clutching her head as if she’s scared it might explode if she doesn’t hold it. 

_ “Go to bloody Wales,” her father whispers in her ear, “I’ll give you more money than you know what to do with.” _

_ Her mum smiles, indulgent, and wraps her long fingers around her father’s elbow. “We will have your dowry ready for the end of your year.” _

She shakes off the absurd image and blinks furiously to fend off the tears that have filled her eyes when she was daydreaming about a hundred thousand galleons appearing in her personal vaults. She lets out a growl and gets her sunglasses out of her coat's pocket, putting it on to shield her face to an extent. 

“Fine,” she says out loud, nodding with vigour, pushing herself to her feet. She’s chosen this over and over again, to stand on her own feet, without getting on anyone’s broom, without asking anyone for help. She had fought tooth and nail the last three years to be able to afford a relatively comfortable life. 

She is exhausted but she is not going to run back to daddy just because there are some arseholes waiting for their time to trip her over. 

At least they know she bites back. 

She stops by Diagon Alley on her way back to visit an antique bookstore in which only Purebloods are welcome. She doesn't want to go there, and isn't sure she remembers the way because she’s kept to Muggle London for a long time. But she has to go because Magical newspapers burn themself to recycle after a few weeks, and special -and not exactly legal- spells have to be used to preserve them. She needs to know before she faces Potter. 

_ If Potter knew this, he’d scold me for going there despite knowing their policy, _ she thinks, her steps getting lighter with the thought of defying him. She allows herself to indulge in this impulse for today. After all, she is not going to be able to say no to him when she starts working with him. 

_ For him,  _ Andy’s voice pops up in her head.

Her usual attire, large, floppy hat, sunglasses and black coat, is useful in the magical world, because apparently Muggle fashion has invaded here as well. She manages to pass the stores she grew up visiting without anyone noticing her, her heart beating wildly in her chest. 

_ I have such fragile bones, _ she thinks hysterically,  _ what if I get swamped here and they all walk over me- _

She stops herself when she hears what she's thinking. She is a witch, for Merlin’s sake. She can Apparate.

_ Unless someone disarms me _ , she thinks.  _ And I don’t even have my own wand. I can’t even conjure a decent fire with this. _

Thankfully she approaches her destination before she can spiral into a meltdown, fixing her expression into something haughty and dismayed. It’s easier than breathing, especially inside the store she steps into.

“Miss Parkinson,” a voice booms inside her head when she shuts the door, deafening when the noise of the people outside fades into a hum. She’d been expecting it but she still winces, just like she did when she was a little girl and came by here with her mother. She hopes it wasn’t obvious this time.

“Miss Lestrange,” she replies, her voice far more steady than she feels. “How have you been?”

The woman, who should look around sixty, not twenty, smiles, her face morphing into something even more beautiful. It’s hard to believe Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange were her sons. 

Or grandsons. Whatever.

“I expected you today,” she says, her voice singing in her ears pleasantly, and Pansy almost sighs in pleasure in the presence of her unseemly charisma, forgetting what she came for. It takes a pinch inside her wrist to bring her back to reality. 

She tentatively walks closer, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground to avoid getting sucked into her bubble again. She gazes at the papers on the desk, and cocks an eyebrow. “I don’t need this much.”

“And you don’t have the money to buy them anyway. It’s on the house, dear,” she says and Pansy flinches. She’s said that one before.

“No,” she takes a step back. “I don’t want anything to be on the house. Just bill me what you bill others for having a read.”

She will not owe a favour to bloody Lestranges. Especially to one who probably has some Veela blood in her. 

Delighted laughter rouses from the woman. “Fine. Fifty galleons for fifteen minutes,” she says, her voice growing steadily colder, sending a chill up in her spine. “Use it well.”

Pansy can bet her right arm that it’s far more than what she usually charges. It’s still better than having to see this woman ever again. 

***

Pansy walks around the streets as if in a daze, her sunglasses and hat clutched in her damp palms before she barges into a shop, not bothering to reply to the shop keeper’s vibrant greetings. She doesn’t notice if she gets any attention or if anyone whispers into each other’s ears pointing at her. She doesn’t care. She only needs a roof over her head to get her composure back. 

At the Lestange’s shop, she wasted about ten minutes on going through news on Potter before she stumbled upon something interesting:

_ Andromeda Tonks (nee Black), mother of Nymphadora Tonks and mother in law to Remus J. Lupin.  _

She feels exceptionally stupid. 

No, she hasn’t met the woman before, since Andy left her social circle for good long before she was born. Nevertheless, she’s heard stories about that girl,  _ that wrench _ , who ran away from Black family to marry a mudblood, always with a tone of amusement, satisfaction and a bit of astonishment. 

It wasn’t that hard to find more information on her when she knew what she should be looking for. She was basically on the news every single day, sometimes only her name appearing. The papers had a field day writing about life. Her marriage, her disowning, her tragedy.

No wonder she wasn’t impressed when she said she was bitter at life. No one had a more valid reason to lash at everything than a woman who lost her daughter, husband and son-in-law. 

Werewolf. That word was everywhere. It was what was used to describe Professor Lupin. Pansy knows about that, of course she does. Professor Snape had insinuated about it enough times, ensuring they’d never forget about it. She feels a pang of guilt about the way he had to leave the school, but she shakes it off quickly enough. He had resigned long before the uproar, before she was forced by her peers to write to her parents. 

She’d never liked to be the one to tattle. Among her ‘friends’ there was always someone quicker than she was to tell Snape about the other students’ failings. She let the others do dirty work and chose to laugh from the sidelines until that day when she decided she’d have to be the one to sell Potter out if no one else was doing it. 

It’s the photo of her daughter that struck her the most, along with the photo of Potter carrying a small kid in his arms, with these words written under it:

_ Teddy Lupin,  _ _ first recorded child of a werewolf, born as a result of a union with a Metamorphmagus. Mr Lupin’s guardians - his grandmother Andromeda Tonks and his godfather, the famous Harry Potter - declined the Department of Mysteries’ requests to study the nature of the miracle child. _

Nymphadora Tonks, she mouthed, trailing her finger on the photo of a lousy brown haired woman, her face serious and closed off, dressed in formal Auror robes that she had on her when she was stationed at Hogsmeade in their sixth year.

She had always wondered her name. 

Pansy has a strange list that fills up her head. The list of people she talked face to face, but who are dead now. She started making that list during her sixth year, when their family elf passed away and she put her grandfathers in the list as well, who had been both dead for longer than five years at that point. Her grandmothers, and many other old people entered the list quickly enough, but they didn’t leave a lasting impression on her until she remembered Cedric Diggory, who used to tutor her in Transfigurations. She had a brief period of time where she spent her days daydreaming about him but let it go in no time, never having said anything to anyone about having a crush on a half blood. 

Now Nymphadora Tonks enters the list. 

She cries in the corner of a loud, crowded store in the middle of Diagon Alley, harder than she has since that time in the stadium  when she was sitting on the Quidditch stands, spilling tears over a boy who said “Do I really look like I have time for you, Parkinson?”

This time she’s alone because the person who was there with her the last time is dead, just another name in her list. 

It’s obvious when it’s pointed out. The unimpressed expression on Andy’s face when she said “Bitter, terrified.” She now knows why it was so familiar. Because she’s seen it before on Nympadora Tonks’ face when she sat by her until she stopped crying. 

When she’s relatively calm, she puts on her camouflage and gets up, grabbing a quill without looking at it. She pays for it at the front, just so that she won’t be stopped to be searched if she leaves without buying anything.

She can’t explain this to Margaret, even though she probably has some food and drinks ready for her. So she wants to do exactly the same thing she did when her penalty was finalised, but decides to go back to her house but only because she has to feed the cats. 

And also because she had to withdraw her last money from Gringotts to pay the Lestrange and she has about three quids left on her. 

***

For the last several years, Harry has had a standing dinner appointment at  _ Luchino Caffe  _ at Tottenham Court Road every Friday night. 

Him, Ron, and Hermione have their own table now, on account of being regulars, and it was by far Harry’s favourite hangout place due to the blessed anonymity. When Harry walks into the non-descript cafe, it is to a loud greeting of ‘Harry!’ from the pot-bellied owner from behind the cash register, and a wolf whistle from the dark-skinned waiter with dreads next to him. 

Ron, who had looked up at Mr Luchino’s shout, went back to flipping through the glossy pages of a Muggle lifestyle magazine. Figuring that his friend would be occupied for the next several minutes, Harry walks up to the counter and shakes hands with the delighted proprietor. 

“What, it’s too much?” Harry asks Dan, the waiter who only works night shifts, gesturing to his outfit. He had a bit of a time to get ready that day, and was in a good mood as his interview had prompted a few more donations.Feeling a bit daring, he had elected to wear Sirius’ motorcycle jacket over his father’s old Order t-shirt (salvaged from the cottage at Godric’s Hollow that he had visited a few weeks after the war, Ginny’s hand in his) and Dudley’s faded jeans that had been one of the last things Aunt Petunia gave to him after they shrunk in the washing machine. 

“You look ravishing, darling,” Dan replies, coffee-brown eyes glinting under the tungsten bulb hanging overhead. He peeks at the three empty chairs next to Ron and asks, “No girlfriends today?”

“Mine’s in Brazil,” Harry replies automatically, a half-lie. Ginny  _ was  _ in Brazil all summer for a Quidditch training camp, but she wasn’t his girlfriend anymore. “Hermione’s probably stuck in traffic. I’m starving; can you get started on my usual?”

“You got it, luv,” Dan says cheerily and disappears into the kitchen hidden behind some ugly drapes. 

There are only a handful of diners today, and even they have their eyes fixed to the flickering telly. 

“Dull crowd?” he asks Mr Luchino, half leaning against the counter.

“There’s a football match today,” the man says, and shrugs as he tallies the cash register. “Can I get you lot some coffee?”

“No, thanks!” Ron shouts from his seat and Harry chuckles. The menu might have improved in recent years, but the coffee was still the foamy drain water it was since the day the three of them sat in this same cafe, escaping from the Death Eaters who had crashed Bill’s wedding.

Harry likes the coffee, though. 

“I’ll take it,” he offers. The trick is to drink it scalding hot so you don’t get a chance to taste it. He gets his coffee handed to him in a styrofoam cup and the liquid nearly burns his hand. He calls back a ‘thanks!’ to the counter and joins Ron. 

“I dunno how you stand it,” Ron says, shaking his head in disgust when he sees Harry blow on his coffee before taking a slurp. Harry is spared from a reply when the semi-automatic door opens and Hermione rushes in, bringing with her the sound of London’s busy streets. 

“Sorry I’m late!” she says as a way of greeting, shrugging her outer coat and giving Ron a thorough kiss. She must have rushed here directly from the Ministry, because when Harry hugs her, he can smell ink and parchment. She wrinkles her nose at Harry’s coffee. “You’ve got to stop drinking this coffee one of these days, Harry, they’re terrible for your teeth.”

“I’ll get them whitened at your Dad’s,” Harry placates her. She gives Mr Lunchino a great wave and takes a moment to smile at the both of them before she sits. 

“How was your day?” Ron enquires in general, finally closing his magazine and pushing it off the table to the empty chair that would sometimes be occupied by Ginny. He pulls out a small plastic box the size of a matchbox and places it on the table before pressing the large button in the middle, engraved with the Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes logo. It’s a pocket Muffliator which gives them an additional layer of privacy in the Muggle cafe as it fills the ears of anyone passing by with an unpleasant buzzing noise. “Good interview, by the way, Harry. Mum wants you for lunch on Sunday.”

“Yes, Harry, it really was,” Hermione compliments him. It’s a bit redundant because both his friends had sent him a nice letter with clippings of passages they liked. “Although Kingsley wasn’t too pleased with your comment on the Aconite Tax.”

“Kingsley can go suck a wand,” Harry replies happily. Recently, due to a certain fringe group attempting to poison some Unspeakables and Hitwizards, Minister Shacklebolt had passed an executive law increasing the import tax on aconite - a key ingredient in the Wolfsbane potion - by twenty percent, making the brewing of the potion more expensive than it already was. Harry had stressed how that increased tax was going to negatively affect ‘The Moony Project’s’ operating cost. “I’d love to come ‘round the Burrow, Ron, but I have Teddy this weekend. Your Mum wouldn’t mind if I brought him along, would she?”

“C’mon, mate,” Ron says. “When has my mother ever turned away an orphan?”

Harry can only chuckle in response.

“Touché. How’s the Hogsmeade expansion coming along?”

“Very slowly,” Ron replies, face grim and exhaustion showing in the new lines around his mouth. Ron had quit the Aurors barely six months in and had joined George in reopening Wheezes. The pair of them had just bought out Zonko’s the previous Christmas, and were hoping to convert it into a second location right before the next Hogwarts term. “I spent four hours in a meeting with the building contractors today.” 

He shudders. 

“There’s only that much a bloke needs to know about plumbing.”

“There, there,” Hermione pats Ron’s hand in comfort, her wedding ring still shiny. It still threw Harry off a bit that his best friends had gotten married. “I had a light day, for once. Spent a fair amount of it bringing Janice up to speed.”

She meant Janice Kemp, her replacement at the Ministry. Three weeks ago Hermione had been promoted as the Deputy Chair of the Wizengamot Liaison Committee, a significantly more meaty role than her previous one as the House Elves Liaison. Harry didn’t understand the full extent of her duties, - it mostly seemed like she was in charge of deciding which bills and proposals were argued during a Wizengamot session - but he knew that his brilliant friend was going to get more busy.

“Oh, by the way, Harry,” she goes on, rummaging around in her old beaded bag, letting out a triumphant ‘Ha!’ when she pulls out a dark folder. She thrusts it to Harry who frowns when he sees the logo for the Wizarding Advocates Office embossed in the front. “I ran into Kenneth Belby just as I was leaving. He wanted me to know if we had fifteen minutes next Wizengamot session to discuss the Parkinson trial, and told me there were murmurs that the Ministry lets Voldemort’s supporters off too easy, and it would quell some of the loud voices if we had a full trial - “

“What do they want us to do?” Ron says, irritated. “Feed all the Pureblood sympathizers to the Dementors?”

Hermione pins him with a stare and Ron shuts up. 

“- anyway, I wasn’t going to suggest it to Kingsley, but  _ then,  _ Belby gave me a copy of the plea deal agreement Parkinson’s lawyer got ratified with the Advocates office today morning.”

She opens the folder in Harry’s hand and flips through the papers to point to a magically signed contract. 

“Guess which charity Pansy’s chosen to volunteer with for a year?”

Ron leans over to take a look and his eyes widen.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” he says, face twisting into a caricature of shock. “ _ Parkinson’s  _ going to be your new assistant?”

***

Luna had once told Harry that you could  _ feel  _ it when he was angry. 

“It’s like a rolling thunderstorm,” she had informed him as she painted his toenails bright neon. “Incessant. Ominous. Building up until the sky splits open.”

Harry, half-asleep on the couch and wiggling his toes, had protested. Ginny and him had invited a few of their friends over to her new flat in Holyhead. 

"I'm not that melodramatic."

Neville, who had been talking to Seamus in the kitchen, had poked his head out and yelled, "You're  _ exactly _ that melodramatic, mate."

Now, as he stalks through the streets of South London, jaw clenching with each step, he grudgingly accepts that Luna is right. 

He had been downright livid at the cafe, shaking with anger when he learnt to whom Andy had offered the job. Harry supposes if it weren't for Ron and Hermione talking him down, he would have Apparated straight to the Tonks' cottage and screamed at Andy until his throat turned raw. 

It had started to drizzle sometime during his walk towards Andy’s house from the nearest Public Floo, and Harry pulls his jacket tightly around himself, irritated that the rain was ruining his white tennis shoes.

Andy’s herbal garden is muddy, and his shoes squelch as he walks through the narrow wet pavement, and climbs up the few stone stairs to ring Andy’s bell. 

Thrice. 

Andy opens the door with a harried expression on her face, wearing an apron that Teddy had hand-painted under Dean’s supervision. When she recognizes him as the intruder, her frown morphs into a delighted smile. 

“You’re early today!” 

He’s spared from answering when his godson runs out to throw his arms around Harry’s waist, his hair the colour of turquoise. 

“Hiya, Harry,” the boy says, grinning up at Harry, his mood the opposite it had been when Harry had last seen him. Teddy peeks behind Harry at the empty driveway and lets out a moan. “Aw, no bike?”

Teddy got such a kick out of riding on Sirius’ old motorcycle whenever Harry brought it by 

“‘fraid not, mate,” Harry replies, sparing a tense smile for Teddy. “You all packed?”

“I just finished dinner,” Teddy explains and takes Harry to the living room by hand. Behind him Andy closes the door and disappears into the kitchen sparing a pat on Harry’s back. “Oh! I lost a tooth in school today, look!”

Harry makes a big show of ‘ooh’-ing at the gap where an incisor had been.

“Tell you what, big boy,” Harry says, his anger abating momentarily. “Think you can get your stuff packed without Gran’s help?”   
  


Teddy deliberates it over seriously before nodding and rushing upstairs with a “Be right back!”

His eyes follow Teddy as he disappears into his room. Then, he sighs, runs a hand through his damp hair, and grimaces. 

In his grand quest to knock some sense into Andy’s head, Harry had forgotten to account for Teddy’s presence. Teddy who disliked it if his godfather and grandmother - who stood in the stead of his parents - fought.

Not that Harry  _ enjoyed _ his loud - and often long - arguments with Andromeda. Their relationship during the first few years of Teddy’s life had been tumultuous, with Andy’s opinion of him being a Hogwarts dropout who got lucky and killed Voldemort. It had taken several hours of Harry working on the disagreeable parts of himself before Andy would even consider that he was level-headed enough to co-parent Teddy with her. Besides, Andy and him might be the only family the other’s got, but if he lost his temper with her and truly crossed the flimsy line that existed between them, there was no telling if she would fuck off somewhere like Seoul taking Teddy with her. 

Adopting a forced casual posture, Harry follows the sound of running water and banging pots into the kitchen to find Andy packing leftovers into a plastic container. 

“Oh, hey,” she says when he sits in the stool across the kitchen island. “Made some extra shepherd’s pie for you to take home to Kreacher.”

If Andy had hoped the saccharine gesture would soften his inevitable blow, it had the opposite effect on Harry. His face hardens.

“Andy, did you offer Pansy Parkinson the job?”

Her eyes meet his squarely over the pie tray.

“Yes, I did.”

Harry doesn’t start at her casual admission but instead lets his anger blaze. 

“I need her fired.”

Andy raises an eyebrow in response, and shrugs, before levitating the dirty knife and plates populating the kitchen island to the sink.

“Feel free. Although you may want to keep a thousand galleons ready. Y’know, as malpractice fees to the Ministry for firing someone before their probation period is up?” She unties her apron and it neatly folds itself by magic and flies off to the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard. “Not to mention the truly egregious amount of money Ms Parkinson’s lawyer could sue us for, - on grounds of discrimination over political bias - and quite possibly, win.”

Harry makes a noise at the back of his throat.

“I don’t care,” he pronounces, voice rough. “Just deal with it.”

Andy gives him an unimpressed look. 

“You seem to be operating under the delusion that I, like everyone else in the Wizarding World, will jump when you tell me to.” Her voice had taken on some coldness, and it sets Harry’s teeth on edge. “Miss Parkinson has prior experience clerking for a store manager, has four NEWTs, which makes her a good fit for the job. She might be even a  _ tad  _ overqualified for it, if you’ll excuse -” 

“Don’t get cute with me, Andy,” Harry says, voice level and staring her down. It had made many an Auror quiver. “This has  _ nothing  _ to do with me, and  _ everything  _ to do with you.  _ You  _ wanted someone you could rub in your sister’s face, and Parkinson’s perfect for the job! To retaliate her poaching Ms Crouch from us!”

He’s breathing a little too hard, his words border on hysterical, but he doesn’t care. How could he have let himself be convinced by Andy to not be present for the interview?!

“ _ Everyone  _ knows that Parkinson was going to marry Draco!  _ Everyone _ ! And now, you've gone and hired Parkinson so Narcissa can watch us even more closely, and Merlin, this is  _ such _ a bloody mess, and don't you get it? I'll never live it down if the Press gets wind of it! It's almost like you want me to fail, just so you can say -"

“I’ll shut my mouth just about right now if I were you.”

The sharp tone of her voice is like an  _ Imperio _ and Harry can hear the sharp sound of his jaw closing. She has her hair pulled back in a wild ponytail, and with her violet-blue eyes burning with temper, she looks exactly like Bellatrix Lestrange. For the first time that night, Harry averts his eyes from her. 

“Now, if you are going to spiral into your usual spiel of insecurity, I suggest you deal with it like normal people.” She pauses for a moment. “In a pub, and  _ not  _ in the same house my grandson lives.”

When Harry doesn’t reply, she prompts sharply, “Clear?”

“Fine,” Harry bites out, his anger curling itself over his body like an ugly blast-ended skrewt, ready to singe anyone who poked it. 

Andy appraises him and nods. 

“Now, are we going to have a civil conversation regarding your concerns with Ms Parkinson’s hiring, or am I going to have to kick you out?”

Harry grits his teeth. 

“I’d like to know  _ why  _ you gave the job to Parkinson.”

“Because she’s capable and she satisfies the three conditions you gave me.”

“Not all three,” Harry objects. “Her father’s still politically powerful in the Balkans. And he’s bloody rich. Moved all his money to the  _ Banco de Isthmus _ the moment he found out Voldemort was back. He’s a shady slimeball, and I don’t believe for one second he let his precious daughter without a knut.”

“It’s her father’s money, Harry, not hers,” Andy says, giving him a meaningful look. “You, of all people, can get behind someone wanting to make their own way in the world without depending on their parents’ vaults.” 

She means him, and Harry scowls. 

“She was okay with selling me out, Andy,” he says. “During the battle of Hogwarts.”

“It was a war,” Andy says and shrugs like it’s no big deal. “People did what they had to survive.”

“She was a terrible bully at school. Very prejudiced, sprouted that Pureblood bullshit. I bet all my gold that if she only had known Remus was a werewolf when he was teaching, she would have written to Daddy and got him fired,” he says and pauses so Andy understands the weight of what he’s saying. “Do you still want someone like that associated with The Moony Project?”

Andy sighs. Encouraged by her reaction, Harry goes on, voice rising with each syllable. 

"Not to mention, she was on the Carrows' Inquisitorial Squad. You know about her trial, her lawyer may have spun the whole 'Oh, but Ms Parkinson worked in the Muggle world for years' bullshit, but I don't believe for one second she didn't torture Muggleborns and half-bloods." 

When Andy still says silent, he makes a wild gesture as if wishing to conjure the recent issue of  _ The Daily Prophet _ which had covered Pansy Parkinson's trial in excruciating detail. 

"Look - you read the papers, too, and do you  _ still _ want her around at Grimmauld? Where Teddy sleeps? Even after reading the trial transcripts?"

"Harry," Andy says, leaning forward and taking his closed hands in hers. "If I believed in everything the papers say I would have believed that we eloped to Gretna Green last month, and Teddy was our ring bearer."

Harry pulls back his hands from hers like he's burnt, and stares at her in disbelief. 

"This is  _ not  _ a joke! Andy, take it seriously!"

"Oh, I am," she says, levelling him with a sober expression on her face. "Did you know the Dark Lord specifically wanted Ms Parkinson to be on the Inquisitorial Squad?"

Harry frowns, doubt replacing anger for a second. It was common knowledge in the Auror Office that Perseus Parkinson (the third) had been on the outs with Voldemort during his second rise to power. Could it be that Voldemort was petty enough to put Parkinson's daughter in the limelight to blackmail the man? It didn't seem far-fetched. 

"She still tortured kids, though."

Andy purses her lips at that. 

"Debatable," she says and holds up a finger when Harry opens his mouth to counteract. "They put her there because she was a pureblood and she had her family to think about. That girl will do great with us. You'll see it too if you can pull your head out of your ass for one second."

Harry groans, letting his head fall on the cool marble countertop. 

“Fine,” he says, sighing. “Can I at least add in a clause? In her hiring contract?”

“What clause?”

“One disparaging comment regarding werewolves or Muggleborns or Merlin forbid,  _ Muggles _ , she’s out. No questions asked.” 

From the corner of his eyes, he can see Andy deliberate. 

“Technically, that would be a violation of the contract.”

“Andy,” Harry growls, glaring at her over his glasses. 

“Hey, you're the one who approved the contract Montague drew up without checking what it said,” she defends. “It’s illegal to fire someone during their probation period.”

“It’s Parkinson,” Harry says, bordering on whining. “I can't even give her the boot even if she tries to poison my breakfast before her first week’s out?”

“No, but feel free to fire her after the three months are out, though.”

Harry doesn't get a chance to contemplate. 

“All done!” Teddy says as he slides into the kitchen, dressed in a t-shirt and pyjama pants, and carrying a backpack which he gladly hands over to his godfather. Harry holds his tongue before the parent in him berates Teddy that he shouldn’t be wearing winter boots in June. “Can we go now?”

“Yeah, wait for me by the Floo,” Harry tells the boy who gives his grandmother a quick hug before running out of the room. He unzips Teddy’s bag and checks if he has everything he needs - toothbrush, underwear, clothes, stuffed toys - and zips it back up, satisfied.

“Well, three months, huh?” Harry muses aloud. “I wonder what I’m going to do for three months with Parkinson around.”

“You can work with her, you know,” Andy points out. “Considering we’re paying her and all.”

  
_ Yeah right,  _ Harry thinks.  _ As if. _


	4. The Plan

Zhivko Kovalkov appears on her doorstep on Sunday, uninvited. But Pansy is not an uncivilized troll, unlike him, and opens her door wide to let him in. 

He looks casual, without his formal robes and Muggle suit underneath it, as he prefers when he’s outside the court. Less intimidating and warmer. She dreads the times she sees him in formal clothes these days but when she first saw him with Muggle clothes, she was sure it was a prank and pointedly did not comment on it.

That was before she learned he also works as a muggle lawyer, and is a muggleborn, which he had used to his advantage at every point during her trial. 

Pansy suddenly feels guilty about leaving him there in her anger, after he got her the best result they could hope for.

And he has two bags in his hands, smelling of coffee and eggs. He walks inside her sitting room, without glancing back at the kitchen because, as he once said when he saw she started leaving the cat food in the sitting room, “her kitchen is so dirty that even the cats refuse to eat there.”

“I brought some breakfast for us,” he says, placing them on her coffee table, knocking off some magazines on the floor and kicking them under it. Pansy doesn’t care if her house gets messy, but any other time, she would complain about it as a principle. But not when he’s brought food, even after she left him at the Ministry.

She sits across him and her pets, all four of them, trail into the room one by one, smelling the food. She snorts at the image of her owls walking like the cats instead of flying in. 

“Is there anything we can give them?” she asks, her mouth half full with a croissant. Zhivko -Mr.Kovalkov, she reminds herself- gives her two containers without looking up and Pansy opens them, revealing sausages. She gets up and places them far away from each other. Rowena and Salazar go to the right corner, and Helga and Godric go to the other corner, eating their treat without any fights. 

When she is certain there won't be any problems, she turns back to her food but Mr. Kovalkov is watching her like a hawk. “What?”

“You should’ve talked to me before you chose a charity.”

“Why? It wasn't a very hard choice.”

“It wasn’t, because you fell for your father’s ploy,” he says, his voice mocking. 

Pansy clears her throat and takes a large sip from her coffee. “What do you mean?” she says, almost shrieking. 

His face hardens and he slams his fork on the table. “Stupid girl, he wanted you to pick Potter’s charity so you’d be in the papers.”

“Why would he want that? It will only affect him negatively,” she dismisses, then she stops, a thought occuring to her. “Is he running for a Wizengamot seat now?"

"Oh no, your father set his sights on being Bulgaria's next Secretary for Foreign Relations. From what I know, he is well on his way to being nominated before the Bulgarian Assembly. He wants to make sure nothing derails his plans of being appointed before fall." He rubs his temples, “I learned he bribed some Wizengamot members to include Potter’s charity into your options.”

“Why?” she breathes out, her throat closing off and she pushes her food away, having lost her appetite. 

Mr. Kovalkov snorts at her gesture and pushes it back to her. “Eat. Now, listen to me. He wants you to serve this sentence so he can be that person who doesn’t even favour her own daughter. He wants to look _ fair _ .”

The word is so absurd that Pansy lets out a laugh and forces herself to take another bite when he raises his brows pointedly. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she snaps. “I got a letter from him the next day giving me his bloody advice, also scolding me for leaving you alone there.”

Mr. Kovalkov appraises her coldly, and sits back, folding his arms before his chest. “Miss Parkinson, let me make one thing clear. I work for you, not your mother. And I haven’t talked or written to your father in twenty five years. Whatever they learn about you, they learn from someone else. Is that clear?”

Pansy nods, her face burning with shame. She knows how it feels to be accused of things you haven’t done. “My apologies,” she grits out. 

His face softens and he sighs, and leans forward. “Do not jump into anything without consulting me again, alright? It only causes more problems.”

“I didn’t even know it was Potter’s foundation,” she mumbles into her cup.

“I know, that’s why you’re subscribed to the newspapers again. You can’t afford to be clueless anymore,” he says firmly. “When do you start? We should get them to sign a contract.”

Pansy freezes, evading his eyes with dawning horror. 

“Tell me you didn't.”

She doesn’t answer and groans, hiding her face in her palms. 

He blows a breath and digs into his plate, giving her a disappointed scowl. “Bloody hell, I can’t deal with this on an empty stomach. Go bring the copies. I’ll have a look at them.”

Pansy obeys at once, her steps light as she runs away from the room.

She’s so fucking stupid. It’s completely unbelievable that once she thought she was a smart girl. 

She lays the papers next to him on the sofa, keeping her steps light but he doesn’t spare a glance at them, devouring his food. Pansy decides she should get some real food in her before he starts to tear her to pieces. She loses herself in the delicious food for a while, only snapping out of her state when Mr. Kovalkov starts making disapproving noises at every page change.

“Is it too bad?” she asks timidly, when he curls the contract into a rulo, tapping his knee.

He rubs his chin with the back of his hand, as he does whenever he’s in deep thought, before he shakes his head. “He can’t fire you for the first three months, according to labour laws but you can resign,” he says, holding up his hand when she beams, “But if you do the ministry will send you to their choice of charity. I don't think we want to take that chance.”

Pansy deflates, but asks the obvious. “But what if he fired me after three months?”

He hums, going over a few pages with a frown on his face. “He’ll have to pay your salary each month like you’re still working for him but regardless, you’ll complete your sentence in your choice of charity.”

“I should definitely make him fire me, then. I can just go work,” she starts, waving her hand around, “anywhere else, to be honest.” 

“But without giving him proof or a solid reason,” he looks at her pointedly over his glasses.“That’s what you signed on. Take a look at what you can and can’t do. It’s pretty straightforward. It’d say it is not written by a lawyer. We can find some loopholes.”

”Mrs Tonks told me their lawyer wrote this, though.”

His lips curl in distaste. “No wonder. English lawyers have a reputation in Europe.” 

“Not English either,” Pansy giggles into her hand, despite not having an idea. 

His eyes narrow like he’s not sure he believes her but he shrugs a shoulder, like a thought occurs to him. “Still not a Bulgarian lawyer. However, there are some tricky points you need to be aware of. You can’t talk to the papers without his or her written permission or they’d have the grounds to fire you. You can, on the other hand, make him fire you for being incompetent-”

“No, I'm getting a percentage from the fundraises. It’s too good to give up on.”

He nods, “You got lucky there. We can find another way to make him fire you.”

“Maybe I should smell really bad.”

“There are spells against that,” he huffs.

“Well, think of something then,” she says shrilly, crossing her arms. 

“You forget you still haven't paid me for the last two months,” he tells her with a hint of warning in his voice but Pansy is not bothered. He’d been saying this from the start. If he was going to abandon her he’d have done it earlier.

“I’m getting a percentage from the funds, you’ll get your money.” She laughs, delighted, when a thought crosses her mind. “If you can get me fired I’ll give you my one salary on top.”

“What’s your salary?” he flips the pages and whistles. “I’m impressed, Miss Parkinson. But this is actually for the probation period. I'm sure we can negotiate for more.”

“How would they even find that money? Potter couldn’t have inherited that much from his family and Mrs. Tonks had been disowned.”

“It doesn’t matter since Mr. Potter inherited the Black vaults,” he says.

Pansy frowns in confusion, trying to remember their family tree. “Not the Malfoys?”

“No, the last Black was Potter’s godfather, Sirius Black,” he says and sighs, trying to push Salazar away when he tries to nibble on his toes. “Pansy, there’s no one but you in the wizarding world who doesn’t know about these.”

She shrugs. “Don’t know, don’t care. Besides,” she waves her hand around, “Blacks weren’t even  _ that _ rich. Why do you think they let Narcissa marry Lucius Malfoy when they had a half blood just two centuries ago?” 

“True,” he snorts, “but Potters were.”

She groans, thinking about all the people who are probably giving him money out of nowhere. 

“Not what you’re thinking,” he interrupts her before she can start a monologue, “Mr. Potter’s ancestors invented several potions and they made their fortunes from that. All the donations he receives go to the charity.”

“He’s disgustingly perfect, isn’t he?” She growls, grabbing an apple from the table and biting into it. 

He throws his head back in howling laughter. “I wouldn’t say that. Ever since he refused to disclose the donors to the public, the donations have diminished about fifty per cent.” 

Pansy stares at him. “He’s disgustingly stupid.”

He presses his lips together to hide a smile and shakes his head. “Here comes the part that you won’t learn from the papers. I know Potter's related to the Shafiqs.”

She drops the apple and Rowena runs after it, before Helga lands on her back to prevent her from catching it. 

“Really?” she turns to her lawyer, after making sure no blood has been spilled. 

“Yes, his grandfather married into the family but Shafiqs follow the female line, so there aren’t any women left with the name.”

He grabs a slice of salami from the table and Godric jumps on him out of nowhere. He gives the cat an unimpressed look and eats it before Godric can make an attempt to steal it. She bites into her cheek to keep from laughing but it leaves her mouth when Godric starts sniffing his mouth.

“You can bring these to work and have them harass Mr. Potter,” he says, exasperated, trying to push Godric away but a smile plays at the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think so,” she chuckles, “He loved his owl.”

“Doesn't mean he’ll like  _ these.” _

Pansy gasps but Godric, still not having learned English, doesn’t get the criticism he’s receiving and rubs against his face when he pats him on the butt.

“I’ll see if that works. Can you do that my babies?” she asks in her cooing voice, then narrows her eyes at Rowena jumping on the bookshelves. “I’ll put catnip in his room so they can wreak havoc there.”

“Won't they get lost?” he asks, and hisses at the cat when Godric attacks his hand. “Go fight with Rowena.”

“Don’t get them started,” she says with a tired voice and replies. “I’ll put a tracking spell on them and make sure they won't leave the building.”

He looks at her like he doesn’t trust her spells will stop them but shrugs. “I assume you start tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” she says, stuffing her mouth to avoid talking about it.

“Try not to get into a fight with him,” he says, getting to his feet. “I’ll stop by tomorrow evening. Do owl me if something urgent happens.”

She springs to her feet, her mouth full and nods as she walks after him to see him off. 

“Mr. Kovalkov?” she calls when she manages to swallow and he’s about to close the door.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” she says, her voice not revealing her emotions. “For everything.”

He looks taken aback and Pansy feels guilty about never thanking him before. He grimaces like he’s debating something and Pansy braces herself for whatever’s coming.

“Just doing my job, Miss Parkinson,” he says, shutting the door behind him quietly. 

_ I wish you were my dad _ , she thinks, surprising herself with her wish but once she thinks it, it doesn’t leave her head that she’d rather have her attorney whom she’s paying as her dad than her real one. 

***

It occurs to Harry when he Apparates to the front garden of The Burrow for Sunday lunch that the world around them might have changed dramatically - not always for the better - but Ron’s childhood home stands untouched. 

At his side, Teddy’s hair and face turn green, as he clutches his stomach and gags. Apparition always resulted in Teddy puking. Harry watches carefully as Teddy’s colour turns back to normal, hoping he didn’t have to conjure a waste bucket for him. He need not have worried though, because on looking at the crooked, shabby house standing before them, Teddy’s vigour returns to him. 

Harry follows his godson at a leisurely pace, taking in the clucking chickens, the cheeky gnomes blowing raspberries, and the delighted shouts when he enters the hearth after Teddy - voices a mix of various Weasleys, spouses, children, and friends and associates who, like him, have been invited to sup together as family. 

Arthur Weasley somehow wins the ‘who-gets-to-greet-Harry-first’ contest, and grabs Harry in a good-natured embrace before each Weasley - including Percy - welcome him into their home, like they had done when he was half his height.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Harry,” Mr Weasley says meaningfully as he hangs back, electing to walk with Harry to the table, and leaving the rest of his children to engage in an argument over who gets the first serving of Molly Weasley’s roast beef casserole. 

Harry scratches the back of his neck in embarrassment. He’s only been to The Burrow twice after him and Ginny had decided to take a break from seeing each other a few months ago - once, to share the news with her family, and the second, her farewell dinner in the backyard. 

“I’ve been a bit busy, Arthur,” he says truthfully, and Mrs Weasley’s ears prick up at that. 

“Yes, yes, Harry,” she says, enthused. “Can’t turn a page in the papers without your face staring me down!”

“That’s always the case, innit, Mum?” Bill winks at Harry from his seat at the table, bouncing a teething baby Louis on his knee. “Harry Potter, defender for the rights of werewolves everywhere.”

Percy puffs up at that, momentarily freezing the plates he had been levitating to the table from the kitchen mid-air. Mr Weasley, predicting that an argument was inevitably going to break out, fixes his sons with an even stare. 

“Boys,” he warns them lightly, pulling a chair out next to him for Harry to sit. “Let’s leave the spats after we’re done with lunch, hmm?”

“Of course, Dad,” Percy replies, face still serious. “Although, Harry, did you  _ really  _ have to bring up the Aconite Tax?”

“Percy,” Angelina Johnson - who was dating George(!) - singsongs as she carries in the coveted casserole. Percy deflates and moodily resumes setting the table. 

The smell of food laid out on the table entices more people from various corners of the house, and there’s a rush as the parents help the children take a seat, and Harry wonders how much magic was used to fit the enormous amount of people in the Weasley’s compact dining room. 

“Ooh, here’s the first piece,” someone murmurs and they all watch as Mrs Weasley carefully cuts a square piece of the casserole dish and lifts it up with the flat side of her knife. 

Neatly she places it on the center of Harry’s plate. 

The Weasley brothers all groan, earning eyerolls from their respective partners. 

“Always knew he was your favourite, Mum,” Ron complains good-naturedly. “Never should have brought him home that first summer.”

Somehow, Harry catches Hermione’s eye over the din, and they share an indulgent smile.

_ Look at this crazy family we somehow lucked into. _

***

After the large fanfare that was lunch was over, Harry finds himself at his usual spot before the unlit fireplace, in the company of his two lifelong friends, and a six-pack of chilled butterbeer on the Gryffindor patterned rug before them. 

Percy, true to his word, had pulled the rest of them into a discussion on some of the Ministry’s recent laws which had caused Fleur to become enraged enough to retreat to the The Shell Cottage with the sleepy children - Teddy included - with the promise that she would return after “Percy stops being a dunce”. Harry had taken stock of the situation and retreated away from the kitchen, greatly coveting some peace and quiet after a lifetime of chasing down Dark Wizards. 

Like always, it didn’t take Ron and Hermione to join him soon after even though Hermione’s hair was sizzling like coiled copper wires from the rush of a good debate.

“How did it go with Andy?” Ron enquires, breaking the comfortable silence that had stretched between them for several minutes. 

Ron may have had a purposefully light tone, but it sets Harry off, and his prior discontent over the situation returns in full force. 

“She won’t budge,” he says, staring at the dirty iron crate inside the mantel. “Truly believes Parkinson has reformed.”

A look transpires between his friends, and Hermione shifts in her place. 

“I know you’re upset, Harry,” she begins carefully, like she’s gauging his reaction. “But it’s been years since any of us last saw Parkinson, and she didn’t come back to Hogwarts for her Seventh Year.”

She exchanges another look with her husband and Harry very nearly rolls his eyes at them. Did they think he was a baby whose feelings needed to be coddled?

“She was a right bitch in school, I know, but we - er, sorry,  _ I _ \- think that the best thing you can do now is to trust Andy and give Pansy a chance.”

Harry bites the inside of his cheek to get over his disappointment. Amongst the three of them, Hermione had been the one who was eager to put the shadows of the war behind her the minute they buried their dead.

“And you?” Harry challenges Ron. “You agree with her that I’m childishly holding on to school grudges in not wanting Parkinson to work for me?”

Ron, who is spinning an empty butterbeer bottle on the floor absent-mindedly, looks up at Harry’s question, his expression very much like a deer caught in headlights. Tactically, he avoids looking at his wife. 

“You know I love Andromeda, mate,” he says. “I respect her a lot, and she is the best person to run ‘The Moony Project’ with -“

“Yes, yes,” Harry interrupts, waving his hand impatiently. Ron and Andy got along like a house on fire, but Harry could care less about that right now. “Get to the point, please?”

Ron straightens up. 

“But I think Parkinson is not the right choice.” He ignores Hermione’s outraged gasp, and Harry’s jubilant smile. “I mean, she  _ was  _ Draco Malfoy’s girlfriend, and any bird who would willingly push her tongue down the ferret’s throat warrants our suspicions.”

Hermione makes a noise that is a cross between a growl and a sigh. 

“Oh, come on,” she says. “We’re not at school anymore!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Ron asks her sharply, blue eyes serious. “Michael Corner stopped by yesterday and told me that the CFS think Perseus Parkinson is planning his political comeback in Bulgaria, and his OWL was spotted delivering letters to various swing votes in the Wizengamot before his daughter’s trial.”

He fixes Harry with a grim stare. 

“I think Pansy is using you, mate,” he says flatly. “And if Andromeda doesn’t see it, she’s as naive as Hermione.”

“Hey!” Hermione objects. She directs her attention away from her husband and implores Harry, “It’s a far-fetched theory, and it’s not suspicious at all given Mrs Parkinson is from Bulgaria and everyone knows the Parkinsons have clout in the Balkans. Besides, you offered the  _ Malfoys  _ a second chance; what’s stopping you from giving Pansy the same?”

Harry throws his thread back so it rests against the fabric couch.

“Narcissa Malfoy saved my neck,” he says, not even looking at her. “And Draco was - is - invaluable to the Ministry in helping with the detection and destruction of Dark artefacts.”

“Oh, so you are  _ for  _ giving former Death Eaters a shot at redemption  _ if  _ they are of value to the Auror Office,” Hermione deduces, mouth setting in an unimpressed line. She rounds on Ron. “And why in Merlin’s name is Michael Corner telling you what’s going on down at the Council of Foreign Surveillance? More importantly,  _ why  _ are you encouraging him?”

“Don’t get all high and mighty,” Ron replies, chest puffing up in anger. “It helps the business to have an informantinside DMLE.”

She huffs and crosses her hands over her chest. 

“I don’t like how I’m the villain in this conversation,” she says. “Especially when I’m just trying to help you.”

“Yes, well, thank you,” Harry says, a little sarcastic, and Hermione colours. “Do you want to know why I don’t want Parkinson around? It’s because she’s a sell-out. It won’t take someone like Rita Skeeter long to bribe her into sharing secrets. I can’t take a chance, not when I’m trying to fight the Ministry, the public,  _ and  _ the werewolves at the same time! So I can do some real change!”

He looks at Hermione directly now.

“I can’t take a chance, and I can’t do a good job if I have to worry about Rita bloody Seeker being on my case as well. You understand, don’t you?”

Hermione stays silent for a long minute. When she speaks again, it’s soft. 

“Harry, if this is about what happened at Hogwarts - “

“She gave me up, Hermione,” he says simply, eyes glazing over at the memory of a battle fought hard and won. If he closes his eyes now, he can hear Voldemort’s sibilant hiss calling for his head. A threat, an empty promise of sparing everyone if he could just kill him. When not one person had breathed, Parkinson’s voice had risen above, calling for him to be handed over, like he was a parcel. 

It hadn’t stung then, considering he had work to do, but in the years after the war, he had acknowledged the hurt her betrayal had caused. Harry had insulted her and her friends, and she, him and his, but even  _ Draco,  _ who could have gained Voldemort’s favour if he had identified Harry when the Snatchers had brought him to Malfoy Manor, had protected him. 

He didn’t think he could ever be in the same room she was in without resenting her. 

“And she probably tortured blood traitors and the like under the Carrows,” Harry murmurs. 

“We all did things we were not proud of during the war, Harry,” she says weakly. 

“Funny,” Harry says and it’s evident from his tone that he doesn’t think it. “I don’t remember  _ Crucio _ -ing half-bloods and blood traitors.”

Hermione straightens. 

“Yes,” she says. “But you only used the Imperius on goblins, and the Cruciatus on Amycus Carrow.”

Harry’s eyes narrow at her.

“Are you going to try me for war crimes now?”

“Do you want me to?” she asks, voice airy, but full of warning. 

They stare at each other briefly before she stands up, and picks up the empty bottles. 

“Well, I know when I’m not wanted,” she remarks briskly. “Ron, you know where to find me when you boys are done.”

From the corner of his eye, Harry watches her leave, nearly bumping into George who had just sauntered in from feeding the pigs. He gives Ron a puzzled look. 

“Did you lot have a tiff or something?”

Ron looks at Harry, and Harry nods. 

“Or something,” he says cautiously and points to a half full bottle of butterbeer he’s holding. “You want any?”

George doesn’t even deliberate.

“Let’s have it then,” he says, and plops down on the floor with them, smelling of pigsty and the summer breeze. Harry covertly wrinkles his nose. George takes a large swig from the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist, and looks at both of them expectantly. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Harry asks. 

“You two somehow ganged up on Hermione,” he says knowingly. “I want to know what’s got her wand in a knot.”

Again, Harry looks at Ron, and they have a silent conversation. 

_ Do we tell him? _

_ I think so.  _

After all, if anyone understood grudges, it was George. George, who still hadn’t forgiven Dolohov for robbing the world of his twin, despite Harry making sure that the Death Eater was six feet underground. 

“Andy’s gone and offered Pansy Parkinson the job of Harry’s executive assistant,” Ron says finally. “Hermione thinks we should forgive and forget.”

Succinct, yes, but George still looks confused at the lack of context, so Harry explains from the beginning. It’s strangely cathartic, recounting the highs and lows of the past few days to someone like George, who  _ listens _ . Harry pours out his frustrations and his hurt, and by the time he’s named every range of emotion he’s felt, he has a sudden wish to collapse, feeling very much like a Bludger had knocked him out. 

“You should get her to resign,” George says after giving Harry a moment to breathe. 

“He just told you,” Ron says, brows furrowed in confusion. “He can’t fire her in the first three -“

“Yes, yes, I  _ get  _ that,” the older Weasley says. “Did Andy say anything to you about voluntary resignation?”

Harry thinks about it for a second. 

“Er, no?”

“There.” George pronounces with a flourish. “Get her on your payroll, then get her to resign over a reason that  _ can’t  _ be sustained in court. You“ - he points to Ron - “get your wife back to talk to you, and you” - he points to Harry - “can get Parkinson out of your life once and for all.”

Harry stares at him, strangely underwhelmed by his plan. Could it really be that easy? Getting Parkinson to leave by her own accord?

“Over what sort of reasons?” Ron questions. 

“You go after a public cause her father opposes,” George replies, eyes glinting maniacally. “More minority groups in government, fair elections, reducing the influence of gold and lobbyists - the like. If she’s truly dancing to her daddy’s tune, he’ll have her out of your hair within a month, I guarantee you.”

“But I don’t understand, those seem more like Ministry reforms,” Harry says. “How do they fit in my charity’s mission?”

It’s Ron who answers, though. 

“I’m sure we can find an angle,” he says, encouraging. “Talk to Montague this week, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry acquiesced, relieved. He shoots a grateful look at George. “Thanks, mate, knew I could count on you.”

“Anytime,” George says happily, and then pauses. “Although, could you stop by the Hogsmeade Wheezes sometime? We’re not getting enough press for that.”

A delighted laugh bubbles out of Harry at the request. 

“I‘ll be there,” he promises. “Just let me know the date and time, and I’ll get my new assistant to pencil it in.”

***

Pansy was in a good mood all Sunday morning, after Zhivko’s -Mr Kovalkov’s- visit but it deteriorated as the night -and with that her meeting with Potter- approached. She took some sleeping pills around six, because she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep on her own. 

When she wakes up around five a.m., she feels worse than before. She doesn’t know if it’s the side effects of the drugs, or if the nausea she’s feeling is just anticipation, or rather, dread. 

She cleans up her apartment to kill time, something she hasn’t done in weeks in her hectic schedule, rarely having left the Ministry or her attorney’s office. 

“You’re beautiful,” she says, tracing with a finger on the mirror she’d been wiping, ruining her efforts, where a single tear finds a way down.

One of the cats rubs against her leg, and she swallows around the lump in her throat. 

“You’re loved,” she says, her voice shaky and a few more drops follow the suit. She thinks of Helga, Rowena, Godric, Salazar, one by one. And Margaret. Harry the baker. Mr. Kovalkov. The waiter at the cafe, who she tips no matter how much money she has in her wallet. That little kid that comes by the market every Friday to buy the same chocolate when he comes to stay with his father, the one who calls her “Penny”.

“And you will not let Potter wear you down.”

She forces herself to get ready with a fake enthusiasm after that, leaving the mirror as it is, as a reminder to herself, but she ends up sitting on her bed multiple times with a hunch on her back, staring at her empty wall. She paints her nails three times to give her something to do before she can settle on a colour, distracted by the variety of noises that are filling her head, pounding her ears until she can’t move, her butt numbing in the process.

She thinks about Potter. She thinks about herself when she thinks about Potter, and when she thinks about herself she ends up going over her life, one memory at a time. The ones she never forgot and the ones she remembers now. Calling Granger a Mudblood to her face and to her back, after Draco starts saying it. Shrieking in laughter about Weasleys’ lack of money. Sending Ginerva Weasley an anonymous letter about her flat ass and flat chest when Potter called her ‘that pug that follows Malfoy everywhere’ in sixth year. 

She remembers and hates that girl. She remembers and misses that girl. Misses how much that girl liked herself. She was beautiful, pug nose or not. Her hair did not lay limp. She had fuller breasts. She had whiter teeth. Her armpit hairs didn’t grow and she didn't have to wear the same shirt twice. She had gorgeous boys asking her out, instead of Henry the son of Harry the baker. 

It’s not working for Potter what makes this a torture. It has been long since Pansy saw working as something to be ashamed of. She’s proud of it. It’s not the things Potter might throw at her. She has thick skin. 

It's reliving the past herself and facing her present self that yearns for it.

She thinks about the lousy haired Auror woman who told her she had a choice when she was sixteen and the boy she crushed on didn't look at her twice. She stared her down before she sighed loudly, sitting beside Pansy with flourish. “You can choose not to like him, you know. Feelings are not that complicated when you get to the bottom of it. You’re attracted to him. He doesn't fancy you back and you take that as a challenge. That’s all there is. Besides, his hairline is receding. When you see him ten years from now you’ll be glad you’re not with him.”

She’ll think of that woman whenever she sees Andy, and whenever she thinks of Nymphadora, she’ll remember how she knew who she was and who she was crying over and still stayed there with her. She’ll remember she was the reason she stopped pining after boys who treated her like shit. She’ll remember how she never got over her man. She will wonder, if she died because of it, or if she lived to the fullest until she died.

She spirals deeper into self doubt, and there is a part of her that wants to send her resignation letter that grows stronger the more she thinks. She sees Salazar flying towards the house and runs to the window before he tries to break through it again.

To her disappointment, it’s not from Potter telling her their meeting is postponed.

_ Think about the percentages whenever you have the urge to strangle anyone. And think about how much you owe (to me) whenever you feel like quitting. _

_ Zhivko.  _

She laughs, holding a hand against her belly to ease the ache. She looks at her nails painted dark green, a piece of Slytherin on her, and grabs a black skirt and a white shirt to put on, suddenly angry with herself for making such a big deal out of meeting Potter. 

She leaves her house with her Oxfords, while she would’ve gone for high heels for any other time. She has the feeling Potter will have her running around the whole day. 

She repeats  _ one per cent _ with each step she takes to Grimmauld Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're honestly having so much fun writing this story and it's becoming more alive in our heads, for the lack of better word. 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying as well!!


	5. The Meeting

For all the fuss Parkinson’s caused him the last few days, Harry completely forgets that Monday’s the date of her joining ‘The Moony Project’. 

He had spent a considerable amount of time coaxing Teddy to turn go to school and eat his breakfast, and negotiated a weekend trip to the Romanian Dragon Conservatory so Teddy would not try and sneak Snuffles to school. Then, when he had stumbled out of the Floo after dropping his godson off, Kreacher had rushed up to him, panicking that Harry had left behind the lunch and snacks already packed for the boy and 'Master must deliver these to Young Master  _ immediately _ '.

So, on he went. 

Another trip to the school, a covert peek into Teddy's classroom where the boy was doodling something furiously in his notebook, and a run in with a particularly chatty reporter he didn't recognise called Cecil Turpin from _Wizard Health,_ whom he couldn't get rid off by his usual means - threatening glare, a brusque 'No comment', or the fail proof covert pointing to his wand - had left him rather frazzled and on edge. By the time he steps into his living room, he is aching for a shower and a strong cup of Jasmine tea. 

Of course, nothing Harry desired had ever happened in his life before, so when Kreacher materializes before him the moment he emerges from the fireplace, Harry only lets out a resigned sigh and prepares himself to listen to another rant.

However, when he spots the aged House Elf dressed in a smart coat tailored with the Black and Potter family coat of arms stitched on either breast, he freezes.

"Uh," Harry says, blinking as they take in each other's appearance. "Are we hosting The Queen for breakfast?"

"Master is thinking he is being funny," Kreacher says flatly. "But Master is bringing shame to his ancestors by making a Parkinson wait."

Harry's stomach drops. 

"Kreacher be thinking Mistress Andy is finally keeping some good company," the elf goes on, voice booming with approval. "A Parkinson is acceptable to work in Mistress Walburga's house."

"Glad Mrs Black would have approved," Harry says, the corner of his lips curling up in a grimace. He remembers now that Kreacher informed him over their dinner last night that Parkinson would be present at Grimmauld at fifteen past nine. With the whole mess that morning with Teddy, Parkinson had slipped his mind. 

"Has she been waiting too long?" He questions Kreacher, picking up his pace as he leads Kreacher down the narrow hallway to the stairs, lined on either side with Black family portraits who are all united in their dislike of him. 

“Enough for Tiny to serve Master’s guests tea and biscuits,” Kreacher says in reply. “They’re waiting in the solarium.”

Harry comes to a stop at the middle of the hallway, and casts an unimpressed look at the House Elf. 

“I wasn’t aware we entertained guests in the solarium,” he says, eyebrows raised as Kreacher begins to fidget. Eventually, at Harry’s unrelenting stare, he gives in.

“Mistress Andy be insisting, sir,” Kreacher says nervously. 

Harry loved the solarium.

It was one of the last project’s Sirius’ father had begun when he began remodelling the old Black house to his modern tastes, but the man had died before any actual work could be done. Sirius had grudgingly picked it up when he had nothing else to do in the time he was locked up in the house, teaching Harry how to install magically reinforced glass panes inside oakwood frames. It was Harry’s personal place during the worst year in his life, a sacred hideout where he had once spent hours with the man he still thought of as his father, each of them trying to drive away the other’s demons by way of conversation and laughs. 

Harry couldn’t bear to step foot in the place ever since he moved in. 

“Very well,” he tells Kreacher now, descending down the stairs, and finding himself in the Entrance Hall which once housed Walburga’s portrait. The door with a snakehead for a doorknob swings inward when Harry and Kreacher approach it, leading them to the Black family dining room. Towards the far corner of the dining room, a simple door is creaked open, sunlight sneaking in through the gap. “Next time, do remind Andy that the solarium is off-limits.”

“Yes, Master,” Kreacher grumbles. Harry pauses before entering the room and surveys his reflection in the gleaming display case - windswept hair, hand knit jumper with a ‘H’ stitched in the middle, yesterday’s slacks, and worn trainers. He looks distinctly Muggle. 

_ Oh, well, _ he thinks, and watches as Kreacher knocks on the door for courtesy, before pushing it open for Harry to announce himself. When he’s sure that Harry has been delivered to precisely where he is meant to be, the House Elf disappears with a loud crack. Harry holds his breath when he steps in, preparing himself as a deluge of memories assault him.

The solarium seems to have been preserved in time.

The tall, dome-shaped glass ceilings draw in the light from outside and the lack of indoor plants and any furnishing should have made the room foreboding and bare, but with the meticulously tended lawn outside Grimmauld, the room serves as an observation deck. The Fidelius is still holding up, hiding the house from Muggle and Wizarding world, and if he squints his eyes, he can see Sirius curled up in his Animagus form on the carpet, longingly looking at the Muggle streets. 

Andy must have conjured a cushion on the window sill, because she and Parkinson are sitting on it, legs crossed sideways in identical fashion, chatting quietly as they look beyond Grimmauld’s fence. 

“Hello.”

The pair of them start at the interruption and stand up to greet him. Parkinson, in particular, seems to have turned to stone in shock as she takes him in. 

She’s somehow both changed and unchanged since Hogwarts. 

She seems a little shorter than he remembers her, and her hair and skin are darker. Unlike him, she seems to have been dressed for the occasion. Her clothes (a Muggle skirt and blouse, accessorised with a god-awful waistcoat that must be  _ at least  _ twenty years past being fashionable), the sensible shoes, and the way she’s gathered her hair in a tight bun give off the impression that she’s not someone to be trifled with. 

Her nose is still off-center, and he remembers her bright red lipstick. She had never gone without it at Hogwarts, and somehow, it had made her seem put together.

“Parkinson,” he says, and nods at her. Then, to Andy, he makes sure his voice is considerably warmer. “Hi, Andy.”

Andy beams at him and brushes her lips against his check in greeting. In contrast to Parkinson, Andy is dressed in a smart pantsuit, her dark hair coiffed in fashionable waves; it makes her look several years younger. 

“Going somewhere?” he asks her, gesturing at the string of pearls around her neck. 

“Oh, a little this, and a little that,” she says airily. She has been writing a memoir and shopping for an editor who was not interested in sensationalising Andy’s life before and after she ran off with Ted. “You’ll be fine, won’t you?”

“Yes,” he says firmly, aware that Parkinson is observing the way Andy’s hand tightens around his bicep in familiarity. “Do you need me to fetch Teddy today?”

She pats his shoulder and withdraws her hand. 

“You’re a good man, Harry Potter,” she says. “But I think it’s high time I have a chat with my grandson’s teacher on why he seems to loathe the idea of school.”

“Sure,” Harry replies, hiding his disappointment. He wanted to be the one to speak with Teddy’s teacher. "I'll see you soon?" 

"I do hope so," she says, adjusting her sleeves. "Ms Parkinson, could you arrange a meeting with Mr Potter, Mr Entwhistle, yourself, and I sometime this week? Now that we have you, it will be great to jump right into the gala prep."

"I will, Andy," Parkinson says, shockingly polite. "Mr Entwhistle, ma'am?"

"The events planner," Harry supplies. She looks at him in confusion, but quickly averts her eyes. Her not knowing the name makes Harry suspicious because Entwhistle did several society events in a year, and the Parkinson he remembers wouldn't dream of missing any of them. 

"I will send you an owl tomorrow," she says to Andy who nods in thanks. 

"I'm off, then," Andy says, leaning close as if she is going to give him another kiss. Instead, she whispers, “Play nice.”

He tries not to glower at her back as she waves them goodbye, and once Andy is gone, Harry returns his attention back to Parkinson who seems to be taking in the architecture of the solarium with great interest.

“Enjoying the view?” Harry snipes, unable to resist poking her. 

She doesn’t take his bait, though. 

“You have a very nice home,” she says. He supposes she must have watched Grimmauld in its full glory by walking up to the door, instead of tumbling out of the fireplace. “It’s a good spot in London; you must be doing very well.”

If there’s any jealousy there, it’s cleverly hidden under her compliment.

“I inherited it from my godfather,” he says shortly, and as nonchalant as he can, wordlessly conjures a pin-striped sofa in the middle of the room. It gives him an excuse to rest his legs after the crazy morning he’s had. 

“Ah, yes, Sirius Black,” she nods, like it makes sense. “I thought he was disowned?”

Harry gestures at the place they are in, and says, “Evidently not.”

“Oh,” is all Parkinson says, and surreptitiously, stands a little straighter and adjusts her skirt, as if she thinks the house sacred. Harry rarely brings anyone over, and the ones who stop by for a visit are usually severely unimpressed with The Noble and The Most Ancient House of Black. Hence, it’s a bit of a novelty for him, having someone regard Grimmauld with respect. 

“Wasn’t your father also stupidly wealthy?” Parkinson asks, for some reason still standing. “Heir to a potion empire of some sort?”

“Sleakeazy’s,” Harry confirms and can’t help it when his hand jumps to his hair. He had encountered a fair bit of teasing from his mates in the Gryffindor dorm room when Dean had found an old newspaper article in the library mentioning the ludicrous business his paternal grandfather had sold.

Parkinson’s face clears and she makes a sound of understanding. 

“I also think your father’s mother was a Shafiq,” she says thoughtfully, and Harry feels a wave of irritation. Had she spent hours memorising his family tree somehow? Ron’s words from yesterday come to his mind -  _ I bet she’s using you, mate  _ \- and his stomach drops to his feet. Merlin, was Parkinson stalking him?

“They’re still some of the wealthiest merchants on the Continent and the Gulf, I believe.”

“I’m not in touch with any of them,” he responds, still watching her mannerisms carefully. Criminals always had tells, no matter how clever they thought themselves to be. 

Sometime after the war, he had received a neat monogrammed letter from his late great-grandfather’s estate, congratulating him and bearing a warning that if he had any intentions to claim a share of the estate, he would have to duke it out in the courts with a great uncle of his named Ammon Shafiq, one of his great uncles.

His relation to the Shafiqs is not public knowledge, so whoever is feeding Parkinson information is quite good.

“A pity,” Parkinson replies but it’s clear from her brief self-satisfied smile that she doesn’t mean it. “It’s only fair that Lady Luck deserts you from time to time.”

Harry has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from scowling.

_ Yes, growing up an orphan and then watching your godfather and friends die sure sounds lucky _ , he thinks, only a touch bitter. Outwardly, he is purposefully dense.

“Lucky?”

Parkinson, ignoring her facade of faux politeness, rolls her eyes.

“Yes, Potter. Growing up a  _ wealthy  _ orphan, and inheriting the Black family’s deep vaults after your godfather’s untimely passing  _ is  _ lucky.”

Harry thinks about ten years of his life spent inside a cupboard and then several summers spent starving and hiding food underneath his bed. He thinks of Sirius who didn’t live long enough to see the war end, and how their chance of a family was long gone.

Abruptly, he stands up, the sofa disappearing into thin air. 

“You know nothing, Parkinson,” he says, face wiped blank of any emotion. “I hope you have gotten your fill of this room because you will not be stepping foot into it in the future.”

Parkinson’s lips thin into a line and she nods. 

“Allow me to show you where you’ll be working,” he says, and leads her across the dining room to the library, not looking back to see if she’s following him. 

The door to the private study is hidden behind an alcove, the doorknob between two rows of bookshelves built into it. To the right of the alcove, a standard work desk with a pair of comfortable chairs on either side are arranged. “This is where you’ll be primarily working. You must be already familiar with our public office a few miles from here.”

Parkinson nods, and says, “I was interviewed by Mrs Tonks there.”

“Okay,” Harry shrugs. “You might be called in by Andy sometimes, so just ask one of my elves for the Floo address. We change it often for security reasons. I trust Andy has briefed you on your duties?”

“Reply to your mails, arrange your meetings and public appearances, and ensure that you have all the right information and documents to make decisions,” she recites dully, as if from memory. 

Harry appraises her for a moment before saying, “Right. If you need me for anything during the day, I’ll mostly be in my study.”

He pulls out his wand and taps the books in a sequence which causes the alcove to slowly open and reveal a dimly lit study. Parkinson peers in to take a look, and he’s overwhelmed for a moment by her perfume. 

She smells like eucalyptus and something fresh - like spring. 

“Be warned, though,” he says, trying not to look at her. “The books can sense your need, so if you are thinking of bothering me with something inane or poisoning my tea when I’m not inside, your fingers will be cursed to fall off.”

She looks at him, her eyebrows knotting together.

“How do they recognise it?”

Harry smirks at her. 

“Magic.”

Parkinson stays transfixed in her spot, eyes alight in wonder, and Harry’s smile fades a bit when her cheeks flush, and she nervously clears her throat, turning around to indicate her spot against the corner. 

“Do I have permission to decorate my space?”

Harry shrugs in response. 

“Obviously, any Dark artefacts are banned at work, but knock yourself out with posters and photographs.”

“Why would I want to give myself a concussion?” Parkinson asks and gives him a sly sort of look as if she is questioning his sanity, and Harry sighs.  _ Bloody Pureblood supremacists and their sheer inability to appreciate Muggle phrases. _

“No, not a concussion, it just means - you know what? Let’s move on,” he says and walks over to the large, rectangular window behind her desk. “I put in Magic-repelling glasses on all windows when I moved in, to give a bit more privacy. If none of the windows are open, owls can’t deliver any mails or orders. 

“So, if you’re working, you need to make sure that this latch here -“ he grabs the bronze mechanism and lifts it with a click, pushing open the window - “stays open to receive any owls. It’s charmed to be impervious to the weather outside, so don’t worry about the wind or the snow during winter.”

His point is well-illustrated when an indignant barn owl screeches inside the library, feathers ruffled and carrying a familiar red envelope in its talons. The owl drops the letter on the desk, squawks at Harry, and flies back out. Harry’s eyes widen in panic when a shrill voice fills the library.

“ _ PANSY PARKINSON! HOW DARE YOU STAY IN BRITAIN AFTER EVERYTHING YOU HAVE DONE! MY HUSBAND AND I  _ CANNOT  _ BELIEVE THAT YOU WOULD TRY TO COZY UP TO OUR HARRY AFTER ALL THESE YEARS. YOU LEAVE ENGLISH SOIL RIGHT THIS INSTANT, YOUNG LADY, OR YOU WILL FACE THE CONSEQUENCES!” _

Message delivered, the Howler destroys itself, leaving behind smoked char. Harry’s mouth goes dry. 

“Do you know this woman?” he demands of Parkinson who looks flabbergasted. 

“No, I don’t recognise her by her voice,” she says and shakes her head for emphasis. Worrying her lower lip, she murmurs, a bit defeated, “I knew this would happen.”

As if on cue, an army of owls fly into the room, filling the library with dozens of red envelopes and letters. Parkinson presses herself against the wall, tightly closing her eyes, and Harry struggles to duck the owls flying overhead and closing the window latch. Damn past Harry for making the latch magic repellant. Harry grits his teeth as voices and smoke fill the library, and points his wand at the Howlers and bellows out, “ _ Silencio _ !”

It must have been his force of will that causes the charm to work, but Harry’s glad for the blessed quiet as silence rings in his ear. A small pile of letters have also found their way in, he notices. 

“Kreacher!” he calls out, and two loud pops sound as Kreacher appears in the room, accompanied by a little House-Elf aptly named Tiny who drops by Grimmauld thrice a week to help Kreacher with the upkeep of the house. On seeing Parkinson, Kreacher bows magnanimously. 

“Have I received any owls today?”

Tiny pipes up nervously. 

“Master Potter be not receiving anything other than  _ The Daily Prophet _ , sir,” she says, and wrings her hands together, shooting a dark look at Kreacher. At Harry’s encouraging look, she goes on, “Kreacher be saying the paper has upsetting news for Master Potter, so he be hiding it.”

Harry draws his head back in shock, and dread slowly begins to fill up inside him. 

“Upsetting news?” 

Kreacher glares at Tiny for ratting him out, but confesses. 

“ _ The Daily Prophet  _ be writing an article about Miss Parkinson working for you, Master,” he says, and snaps his fingers so the newspaper appears on the desk out of thin air. His face twists in an ugly scowl. “Kreacher thinks Master shouldn’t worry over what the news says and continue with his work.”

Harry is equally irritated and amused at how easily Parkinson had won over Kreacher with nothing but her last name. Mentally shrugging off his thoughts, clears his throat loudly. 

“Thanks for the paper, Kreacher, I appreciate it,” he says. “Can you and Tiny make sure that all the windows in the house are closed so we don’t get inundated with owls?”

Kreacher blanches a little at the suggestion. 

“The owls will wait it out until we open the windows tomorrow, Master,” he says unhappily. 

“Set up a mailbox in the yard, then,” Harry instructs and the elves nod in unison. “I don’t want to be mobbed by mail anytime soon.”

Kreacher gives another bow to Parkinson and disappears with Tiny. Once the elves are gone, Harry looks at Parkinson, and both of them make a leap towards the desk to grab the paper. She makes a valiant effort, of course, but Harry’s been a Seeker and an Auror, and he holds the paper in the air to prevent her from snatching it away.

“Stop being childish, Potter,” she snaps, crossing her arms against her chest. “Obviously, this has to do with me, so let me read it.”

Harry tuts at her. 

“My house, my rules,” he chides, and unfolds the paper. 

The front page headline is a shot of Kingsley shaking hands with the MACUSA President Josh Whitford. It’s a summit of some sort, and the Ministry was apparently signing some trade agreements with the Congress. Harry skims the page, and to his horror, finds a seven-inch column with the headline:  _ Pansy Parkinson’s Redemption: Disgraced witch finds job with the Boy-Who-Lived’s charity _

A subheading paints a picture of the article’s tone.  _ Harry Potter forced to hire Parkinson on orders of the Minister? High-ranking Ministry officials say Potter being punished for criticising the Aconite Tax. _

The article is not flattering at all, and the author - who bravely states their name as Anonymous - goes to great lengths describing Parkinson’s trial in detail. Harry’s stomach turns as he reads on, and he has to swallow the bile that rises up as his eyes focus on a cherry-picked witness statement from the trial. 

‘ _ The Carrows didn’t like it when half-bloods scored better than the Pureblood students,’ recalled Ms Li, a former Ravenclaw. ‘If you did well on your test, you were assigned a detention with a member of the Inquisitorial Squad. If you were lucky, you got away with a Cruciatus Curse. If you weren’t, well, let’s say that you couldn’t eat for days afterwards.’ _

_ ‘Do you remember Ms Parkinson administering detention?’ Justice Dearborn then questioned, face lined with deep sorrow at Ms Li’s trials.  _

_ ‘I can’t say for sure,’ Ms Li, admitted. ‘I served my detentions with Goyle, mostly. But I know several lower years had detention with her.’ _

_ Ms Li meant Gregory Goyle who is now serving lifetime in Azkaban for committing unspeakable crimes against his fellow students and minors.  _

_ ‘Were they tortured by Ms Parkinson, Ms Li?` the Justice asked. _

_ ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’ _

_ ‘Do you think you can try and recall any incident where you remember Ms Parkinson being in the detention chamber?’ _

_ ‘Yes, once,’ Ms Li said grimly. ‘After my last detention with Goyle, she walked into the chamber and handed me my wand so I could heal myself. I wish she had done something to make it stop.’ _

_ Dedicated readers of the Prophet may remember that Sue Li lost her legs after valiantly fighting against the Dark Lord and his followers at the Battle of Hogwarts. She is currently receiving treatment in the Janus Thickey Ward at St Mungo’s for repeated, regular exposure to the Cruciatus Curse.  _

_ The author wonders if there is any justice in this world where traitors roam free and heroes suffer.  _

Harry folds the paper again, and sets it aflame. Parkinson stands next to him quietly. 

“I have a brunch meeting with my lawyer today,” he says, his voice void of any emotion. He doesn’t dare look at her for fear of doing something vengeful and unforgivable, like set  _ her  _ aflame. “I expect these letters and the ones in the mailbox to be dealt by the time I’m back.”

She objects immediately.

“You can’t be serious, Potter,” she argues, totally giving up on her pretence of being polite. “Truly you don’t expect a single person to sort through hundreds of letters?”

Harry turns his head to look at her. The letters are burning on the table and as he steps forward, the light from the fire ensures that he can see his terrifying glare reflected in her eyes.

“This is your job,” he says flatly. “Get it done.”

He disappears into his study without a word and doesn’t look back at the anger carved into every line on Pansy Parkinson’s face.

  
  



	6. The Aftermath

_ The Goblin’s Goblet  _ is an exclusive, high-end gastropub in the little street appropriately named Horizont Alley as it cuts straight through Diagon Alley. 

The Voldemort-controlled Ministry had tried its hand at expanding the wizarding shopping district by slaughtering the small Muggle housing block occupying the space so they could add new storefronts and extend Knockturn Alley. Someone had also found blueprints in Pius Thickness’ office, detailing plans to build a temporary Snatcher station to monitor everyone coming and going through the wizarding shopping district, but the project never really saw fruition. However, there is something to be said of all politicians being cut from the same cloth because the Shacklebolt Ministry was also not willing to give the heavily warded land back to the Muggles - despite it being acquired by literal manslaughter - especially with the limited real estate available for wizards and witches to use. 

Harry Apparates to the mouth of the nearly empty alley approximately thirty minutes after his meeting with Parkinson, pulling the collar of his trench coat up, eyes alert even if they are hidden behind polarized glasses. Coupled with an oversized hat, it’s Harry’s standard outfit whenever he steps out of the comfort of Grimmauld, partly not to attract any public attention, and partly because being hidden in public is a practice he has not managed to shake off since the year he was on the run. 

It’s a picnic weather kind of a day, so most cafes and snack bars he passes by have set up tables and chairs outside, and Harry can’t resist keeping his ears from following snippets of conversations - right from the laughing couples to the gossiping sales witches on their smoke break. His skill for picking up roadside gossip and connecting them to the bigger picture had once made him a formidable Auror. By the time he signs his name on the little guestbook outside  _ The Goblet _ , his mind has regained its ability to form coherent thoughts instead of panicked half-sentences and flashbacks of Hannah Abbot bandaging Su Li’s amputated legs in the middle of the Great Hall. 

His name on the book flashes green for a second, confirming his reservation, and scarcely a moment later, the manager throws open the door with eagerness. For his benefit, Harry drops the Notice-Me-Not charm.  _ The Goblet  _ is renowned for its high profile clientele, and the staff keep their mouths shut, so Harry lets himself be ushered inside quickly and pointed to his private booth where Octavian Montague sits, flipping through the menu quite disinterestedly.

Harry shuffles into his chair, disposes of his coat and hat, and leans back into the comfortable cushion, running his fingers through his hair and grimacing as the tight hair tie holding his bun together snaps. 

“You look like a real asshole wearing sunglasses indoors, you know,” Montague says in a bored tone, raising an eyebrow over the drinks menu. 

“So is keeping the waiter on edge by not ordering anything off the menu even though you eat here literally every other week,” Harry retorts and Montague inclines his head. 

Snapping the menu shut, he waves the relieved waiter over. 

“I’ll take the Honeydukes special crepes with dirigible plum preserves, and a coke,” Montague says and the waiter writes it down. The famous Muggle soft drink had eventually made it into the wizarding world as well. He points at Harry and continues, “He’ll want a Mini English with a refilling glass of pumpkin juice, no sugar.”

Harry nods to confirm the order and when the waiter disappears, he slides his glasses over his head, and meets Montague’s impassive stare. 

“I guess you know it by now,” Harry begins, crossing his legs. “I’ve been bombarded with Howlers and hate mail all morning. Parkinson’s dealing with it now.”

Montague’s eyes widen. 

“You let her  _ see  _ it?”

Harry’s brows knot together in confusion. 

“I was under the impression that it was part of her job? Replying to my mail and all that?”

“Replying to your mail, yes,” Montague agrees. “But replying to death threats addressed to her is  _ your  _ job. There’s a provision in her employee contract that allows you to be penalised before the Wizengamot if any harm comes to her while you’re her boss. The definition of ‘harm’ is vague, so you can be sued for even something as simple as a Stinging Hex on a letter.”

Harry gulps knowing that the possibility of a Stinging Hex imbued in the parchment is quite high, and sends a silent plea to Kreacher, hoping that the old elf had his wits about himself to scan the mail for curses.

“If I had known Parkinson was going to get the job, I would have bothered to read the contract you sent over and asked you to add loopholes for me.”

Montague rolls his eyes. 

“At this point, Haz, I would wager a thousand galleons on me dying from a broomstick-related accident than on you reading something that uses words beyond the vocabulary of a ten-year-old,” he says, annoyance lacing his words. Which meant his lawyer was going to live for-fucking-ever because Octavian Montague was riding a broom long before he could even walk.

“That’s not true,” Harry complains lightly, the beginnings of a sardonic smile tugging the corner of his lips. “I filled out several investigative reports for the DMLE - I like to think I have the vocabulary of a fifteen-year old, at the max.”

Montague grits his teeth. 

“Yes, you have the vocabulary of take-your-sass-and-shove-it-up-your-”

He never gets to finish, poor him, because their breakfast appears before them in floral-patterned plates and Harry’s stomach grumbles in anticipation as he sees his plate loaded up with eggs, sausages, toast, and a myriad of other classic English breakfast dishes in neat little bowls. He had never really gotten his jasmine tea earlier.

Opposite him, Montague is tucking the tail of the napkin inside his collar. 

“That’s why I pay you fifteen percent above market rate,” Harry replies, picking up his knife and fork. “So you can do all the heavy lifting for me.”

Montague pauses slathering his pancake with plum preserves and says drily, “Funny, I thought it was because you don’t like sharing me with other people.”

“It is so you don't realise that quitting your job as Stubby Boardman's manager to be my full-time counsel is the worst decision you've ever made in your life," he shoots back, grinning. "But whatever helps you sleep at night, Monty."

"Oh, right, that too," Montague says, smugness in his voice. He drops the spatula back into the preserve jar, and takes a mouthful of his chocolate-filled pancakes. “Seriously, though, Potter - it’s on you to convince your clique to back the fuck off. I don’t want to go ten rounds with Parkinson’s lawyer.”

“I don’t have a ‘clique’”, Harry protests feebly, trying to find a way to describe a fair percentage of the wizarding world who still want a piece of him - ‘fan’ is too forgiving for the stalker-like behaviour he has put up with in the past.

“Ah, yes, I didn’t realise ghosts voted in the annual Witch Weekly poll for ‘Sexiest Wizard Alive’,” Montague says amusedly and Harry winces. “It’s happened five times in a row. Strange oversight on the editorial board’s side, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Okay, fine, I have some...admirers,” Harry allows, stabbing into the bowl of sauteed mushrooms. “But from past experience, wouldn’t me acknowledging them energize them more?”

“Then, you must be prepared for her lawyer to take every one of your adoring fans to the court and bury them in fines for bullying and threatening harm,” he warns. Kovalkov was brilliant and sharp, well-versed in Muggle and Magical law, and terrible to make an enemy out of. 

“ _ Then,  _ your fans are going to want you to ‘protect’ them from the evil witch, and you’re going to be contractually obligated to keep her on your payroll, and they’re going to turn on you and say that you’re just like the other scatterbrained celebrities they salivate over and they should have never trusted you.”

Montague’s face is a little puffed at the rant, and he’s glaring at Harry like it was he who had willingly hired Parkinson. Harry stares back at his lawyer, equally annoyed at the false accusation, when an idea pops into his head.

“We should get rid of her.” Montague’s face turns white and Harry rushes to amend his statement. “Not like,  _ kill  _ her, Monty! Merlin. I meant something along the lines of coercing her into resigning.”

When his lawyer doesn’t look convinced at the brilliance of his idea, Harry offers, “I’ll give you  _ another _ fifteen percent raise if you can help me sort her out.”

Harry pauses to let his words sink in, and when Montague’s eyes show the slightest glint of interest, he says, “You won’t even have to do much. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that she might be stalking me.”

“Any reason why?”

Harry loads up his toast with butter and sausages, and takes a bite. After swallowing, he says, “My mate’s got a theory that she’s joined up with ‘The Moony Project’ because her father wants to get some good press.”

It takes Montague barely a second to catch up. 

“There  _ are  _ rumours that Perseus Parkinson is attempting to buy the Foreign Secretary seat at the Bulgarian Assembly,” he allows, shoving another forkful of pancakes in his mouth. “A very good hunch, I would say. Has she exhibited any unusual behaviour?”

Harry takes a minute to think. 

He had been thrown off by how  _ ordinary  _ she looked, hadn’t he? For years now, he associated Parkinson with the scars his friends bore on their bodies, minds, and souls, - courtesy of the Inquisitorial Squad (or ‘Torture Squad’, as Seamus put it) - that he had half-expected to see a woman with devil horns waiting for him. That she was just a woman, dressed in normal Muggle clothes, had succeeded in making him even more apathetic towards her, if it were even possible.

Would Montague understand that this version of Pansy Parkinson - polite, sturdy, meek - is itself unusual? 

“She seemed to know about my relationship with the Shafiqs,” Harry offers instead and Montague nods at that. Then, something pops into his head. “And she didn’t insult my mother once in the time I was orienting her with the job.”

“Does Ms Parkinson have a habit of insulting dead mothers of orphans?”

“She did at Hogwarts,” Harry says, and then quickly amends. “It was usually Malfoy going for the first punch, but she joined in enthusiastically after.”

“Probably just a follower,” Montague says dismissively, and Harry has to bite his tongue to not object to it. Parkinson had never struck him as someone who took orders from others. “It makes sense that her father might be pulling her strings.”

Harry hides his discomfort at that by chewing unnecessarily long on his toast. He had come to loathe the idea of pawns - considering he had been one his whole life - but the idea of Parkinson wilfully consenting to be one doesn’t sit well with him. 

“Or, she volunteered to attach herself to me so that it would help her father,” Harry argues lightly. This seems more probable in his head. 

“Maybe,” Montague says cautiously, inclining his head. “You will have to watch her closely though, push her to the offensive so we can uncover the truth. In fact - ”

Montague pauses, and brightens up a little.

“In fact, if we’re able to discover a link between her father’s campaign and her being an inside mole, you can void her contract.”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“Why would Mr Parkinson want someone inside ‘The Moony Project’?”

“Your closeness to the British Ministry. Political plans you might know. It could be because you still receive foreign intelligence from your friends at the DMLE. He also has a personal aversion towards werewolves after a cousin of his died as a result of a werewolf attack.”

“You are aware that you just listed four wildly different reasons, right?”

Montague rolls his eyes.

“Parkinson may not have worn the Dark Mark, but he has just as many reasons to hate you - especially with the bills you pushed through Wizengamot over making personal contributions to the Ministry for the past twenty-five years, and fining people for being involved in corruption. You’re still a marked man, Mr Potter, even if you think otherwise.”

Harry groans and rests his head in his hands, his unruly hair falling over his eyes.

“Great, that’s exactly the thought I want to fester for the rest of the week. Tell me seriously: if we find evidence of her colluding with a foreign official - assuming Mr Parkinson bribes his way through the Bulgarian Ministry - the contract is void?”

“Positive.”

“Shouldn’t we be hiring a PI for this?”

“What, from the HitWizard office?” Harry nods, and across him, Montague snorts into his drink. “Do you know how much gold you’d have to shell out for someone to do an ‘off-the-books’ case? Why would we want that when we’ve got the best ex-Auror in the house?”

“That’s not funny, Monty, I don’t have the slightest clue on what to do.”

Montague leans back in his chair, and scratches his scruff. 

“Do you remember that Ministry leaker in ‘99? Weren’t you on the team that caught Jon Edgecombe red-handed? How did you guys do that?”

“Well, we first made sure everyone knew they weren’t suspected so they could be complacent. Then, we leaked specific information to different groups of people and waited for it to appear in  _ The Prophet _ so we could trace…”

Harry trails off, looking at a self-satisfied Montague with a newfound respect. This is something that could work, Harry realises, except for this infinitesimal fact: “But this means that I have to be  _ nice  _ to Parkinson. And actually, you know, give her information.”

“No more than your usual amount,” Montague mocks, sipping his coke. Harry suppresses the urge to childishly pour his juice over his lawyer’s head. 

“Fine, I’ll try. Her contract is void if we have sufficient proof even before her probationary three months are up?”

“Even if it is today,” Montague promises, and Harry relaxes a bit. “Be warned though - don’t do anything that corners her. If she picks up your scent, you’re going to be bled dry on the grounds of ‘wilful attacks on personal character’.”

He cocks an eyebrow up at Montague. 

“You make her sound like a shark with your metaphor.”

“Not Parkinson, but Kovalkov,” Montague says, and actually shudders, a faraway look in his eyes. 

Instead of prodding the story out from his friend, Harry chews on the inside of his mouth. “So, I just need to make her feel safe, and wait for her to confess that she’s with ‘The Moony Project’ on her father’s orders to take me down from within so that we can fire her, and not pay her the rest of her year’s salary along with it?”

“Exactly.”

Harry is silent for a moment, and shrugs. It’s inevitable that Parkinson is going to get what’s coming to her one day, so what if it comes from him, fate’s favourite lad of the century? After all, it is high time that she is held accountable for  _ some  _ of her actions.

“Alright, if this works, I’m giving you the promised fifteen percent raise.”

Montague beams.

***

A fresh pot of tea and sugar-free biscuits are waiting for Harry when he walks through the door of Grimmauld and collapses in the dining room. 

It has been an unexpectedly busy Monday so far, because he stopped by 'The Moony Project's' public office a few minutes from his house. Poor Felicity, their administrative assistant, had just about cried on seeing Harry when he had Apparated there after a short walk in a nearby park to shed off his brunch calories. 

With Andy unavailable for the majority of the day, Harry had stepped into her role of following up with Knox for the delayed potions ingredients shipment, and touched base with Boot and Patil regarding the brewing of the latest batch of Wolfsbane for the werewolves. Despite some of the strongest mail screening charms, some of the hate mail addressed to Parkinson had found its way to the office, leaving Felicity unprepared to handle the ensuing crisis. 

By the time Harry destroys the mails, reassures the two new werewolves that were registering with ‘The Moony Project’ that the hate mail isn’t meant for them, teaches Felicity the destruction charm before returning home, it's nearly five and he's spent. It’s been a while since he’s had a full day like this, and he is just about ready to take a nap then and there. 

Kreacher chooses the moment he rests his head on the glass-top table to appear at his side and takes his coat and hat. Instead of disappearing, he clears his throat. Harry can’t even muster up the energy to open a bleary eye. 

“Don’t say anything unless half the house has burnt down,” he implores, and feels, rather than sees, Kreacher’s mouth snap shut and a pair of angry tennis-ball eyes staring holes into his sweater.

Harry ignores it for a while, trying to get his mind to shut down and go to sleep, but Kreacher’s unrelenting gaze, and the tantalizing smell of tea manage to rouse him up. 

“Alright,” he says tiredly to his elf, pouring himself a cuppa. “You didn’t have to stare at me like you want to petrify me, you could have just said something if it was important enough for you to stay frozen in this spot.”

“Master is fickle and doesn’t mean anything he says,” Kreacher complains, but accepts Harry’s peace offering of an oatmeal biscuit. “He be the one telling Kreacher to stay silent if there is no fire in the house.”

Harry feels the prick of guilt, the same prick he gets whenever it is evident that he’s been careless with his words, and magic compels his House-Elf to pay the price for it by inconveniencing him. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry says. He waits as the elf ravenously devours the biscuit and frowns when the telltale signs of agitation - flicking ears, dry lips, pale skin - are openly present on Kreacher’s face. “What’s the matter?”

“Miss Parkinson still be checking the owl mails, Master,” he says. “Tiny just be giving Miss Parkinson the fresh batch from the mailbox twenty minutes ago.”

Then, his distress becomes more pronounced. “Miss not be eating the lunch Kreacher prepared for her.”

Harry rubs his forehead, and takes a long breath. Trust his damn elf to take everything personally. 

“She probably wasn’t hungry,” he says, and gives Kreacher a comforting pat on his shoulder. “Have you and Tiny eaten yet?”

“We elves cannot eat until the guests be finishing and satisfied,” Kreacher says, a touch bashful and Harry can only stare flabbergasted. 

“Right,” he says resolutely after a moment, and yells out, “Tiny!”

Tiny, too, looks starved and Harry feels a renewed bout of irritation at Parkinson. She must have grown up waited upon by House-Elves, what was her excuse for not eating other than that she wanted to punish Kreacher and Tiny for Harry leaving her to deal with the mess?

“This not eating stops now,” Harry says firmly, looking at both of his elves. “I don’t care who is supposed to eat before you do, but from now on, you are both going to eat when you feel hungry, and not wait on anyone in hunger, and this involves me and my guests.”

He narrows his eyes. 

“Is that clear?”

The elves exchange looks. 

“Yes, Master,” they chorus, and Harry stares at them until he can verify that his order has been received. He holds out the plate of biscuits to them. 

“Now, eat,” he says, and when Tiny stares at him like she can’t believe it, Harry gives her an encouraging nod. “C’mon, it’s for you. I already ate out.”

“But, Master,” the little elf protests half-heartedly, “Tiny is to be delivering some new mail to Miss Parkinson!”

“Give it to me, I’m going to my study anyway, ” he says. Tiny looks to Kreacher for approval and he nods. Once Harry gets the bundled letters, he fixes the elves with another firm look. “Now, eat.”

Kreacher grabs the plate from him, and Tiny, emboldened by his retreating back, grabs and stuffs two biscuits into his mouth. 

“See, I be telling you my Master Harry is the best wizard alive,” Kreacher says softly, and Harry pretends not to hear it as he closes the door behind his back, feeling something like an overwhelming rush of affection for Regulus Black’s old elf.

  
  


***

Pansy might have been cleared by Wizengamot, but people haven’t forgiven her. She agrees with the ones complaining she’ll only bring bad press and that they’re  _ sure  _ Potter wouldn’t have hired her if he had any choice in it. It’s the ones that are demanding her death that she's got a problem with, indignation replacing shame around the tenth letter. 

At first she makes copies of the ones which are openly threatening. But around midnight she decides to go over the ones she set aside to find the one that are even mildly insulting because she’s  _ livid _ .

Her handwriting had been getting sloppier with each passing hour and her bleary eyes can’t pick the words, despite being the one to write them. She frowns, wondering if she might be Confounded. 

She had been getting the elves to go through each letter to check for curses after she threw up everything that she’s eaten in the last two days because of some curse on one of the letters but she knows they’d follow through if Potter asked them to do otherwise. 

It was quite clever, truth to be told. The curse started to show its’ effect when she ate the next time, so she had no way to find which one of them was responsible. She had been making some herbal tea that the house offered, to swallow down the brownish food Kreacher brought her. 

The rest is history. She’s infinitely grateful that her office has a private bathroom.

“There are still more incoming.”

Pansy’s arm jerks, and her quill snaps in her hand, ruining her eighth letter to Mr. Kovalkov. She refused his offer to come and help in her fifth letter but she’s regretting that now that Potter’s back with his back ramrod straight, looking refreshed and ready for a fight. She can bet he’s prepared some lines, from his rapidly moving eyes, like he’s trying to recall them to say fluently. 

Luckily for her, she did too. Some of his fans are particularly creative. 

He watches her with an expression that borders on distaste. It makes her stomach twist but she still prefers it over pity. 

She drops her frown and tilts her head like Salazar does whenever he feels particularly cheeky. “Let them,” she goes for a nonchalant tone, tying her hair up in a bun when her neck feels hot. 

She squints at Potter when he shuffles his feet. He looks more cheerful than the situation demands and light bulbs go off in her head. “But they won't make me resign, Mr. Potter. So don't hold your breath.”

He gives her a short, cutting laugh, almost a bark.  _ Barking dogs don’t bite _ , she thinks sourly and snipes at him, “Or please do, if you wish.”

“You wishing me dead won’t work either,” he says as he walks closer, his hands on his hips, chest puffing up like he wants to look bigger, like he considers her to be a threat.  _ Crowding her. _

“Neither will you wishing me gone will work,” she shoots back.

“Ten thousand people couldn’t drive you away, I don’t imagine I have much chance in succeeding.”

Pansy feels like she’s slapped but she had actually been slapped before, by Mrs Goyle of all people, in front of the Wizengamot, and managed to keep her smile on then. 

She hasn’t gone softer since then. 

She’s never fooled herself into believing that Potter would be fine with her presence. It’s apparent he’d been blindsided by Andy and had no idea of her identity before hiring her, even though he tried to be civil in the morning, if one looked past his tardiness. She doesn’t expect him to enjoy her company, or have a chat with her because they’re working together. Merlin knows what she wants to do with people who are demanding her beheading to sate their hunger because they’re out of people to send to Azkaban.

She understands Potter more than he’d like to know.

Maybe he’s subconsciously trying to find someone to direct his anger at and it’s nothing personal. She’s pieced it together, from the things Andy has told her, and from the way he reacted in the solarium that Potter is in no way over the war. He's still processing his losses, like many in Britain. 

But it seems more personal, more  _ intimate _ somehow, how much he seems to loathe her. His lack of restraint when it comes to her when he hardly ever lost control in front of the ones he considers to be his enemies is confusing. It rankles her that he puts that much thought into her, when Pansy hasn’t uttered a word to him since their sixth year, except for calling out to the people around her to grab him to deliver to the Dark Lord during the Battle of Hogwarts. 

He’s Harry Potter. People enter and leave his life in the blink of an eye, enemies and admirers alike.

She doesn’t know what to make out of it. Maybe her presence prods some memories that bring him anguish and that’s the reason for his blatant hostility. She just doesn't have an idea how to deal with it. 

“Brilliant lawyer you’ve snatched,” Potter says airily when Pansy pointedly turns to the stack on her left, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. 

“That’s his job. And this is mine,” she says. “Now if you’ll leave me alone to do my job,” remains unsaid, because she promised herself that she’d listen to those who were wiser than her, namely Mr. Kovalkov. 

She’s seen where her own decisions got her before. 

“What are you doing?” he demands after a while when she chooses to ignore his presence once again.

_ Fuck, he’s itching for a fight _ , she thinks, every single voice in her head begging her to give in to it. 

“Dealing with it,” she mutters, holding back her laugh when she spots him peering at the letters, looking like the suspicious ex-Auror that he is. 

“Why are you making copies?” 

“I’m suing them.”  _ Duh _ .

“Don’t be absurd Parkinson,” he blurts out, grabbing the desk and hovering over her, his face closer than she feels comfortable with. She sits back and folds her arms in front of her chest, trying to placate her aching stomach by sinking her elbows into her abdomen. She needs to run to the bathroom and wash her face to stave off the nausea, reminiscent of the second letter she’s opened but she can not look away from Potter’s unblinking gaze.

Pansy curses herself for noticing his eyes and his lips, the silly girl that she still is.

The silence stretches longer than she thought possible. it’s Potter who caves in.

“If you want to sabotage me, do it subtly,” he waggles his index finger in the air, like he’s scolding a naughty child. “I’m sure your lawyer has explained what you signed on.”

Pansy jumps to her feet, grabbing two random letters from the threat pile and waves them in front of his stupid face. He swats at them like they’re particularly bothersome flies but Pansy doesn’t budge and keeps at it until he gives in and takes the letters, his frown turning into a grimace as he reads on, wincing particularly hard at some lines.

“Fine,” Potter snipes after a while, clearing his throat and with an ugly flush on his face. “Do whatever you want with these two.”

One percent.

“Thank you,” she says, “I do appreciate you understanding.”

_ Go on and try to fire me Potter over this, Potter, _ she thinks, laughter bubbling inside her as they stare down at each other. 

“You don't seem too bothered.”

“That’s because I’m not,” she leans in, and shuts her mouth closed before she can say something about “babies who cry about people wanting them dead.” 

“Good money you can get from these people, right?” His hands turn into fists, crumbling the papers. Her copies. 

Pansy takes a step closer, two thin papers acting as a wall between them and tells him with a straight face, not taking her eyes off his stupidly wide ones, “I’m going to take the bloody pants off their backs Potter. They’re going to regret the day they bought the quills they wrote these with,” she throws her head back in laughter, distinctly aware that she probably looks a bit bonkers now. “They’re going to spend the rest of their pathetic lives to pay me.”

“You dis-“

The venom he manages to put into a half uttered work is what brings Pansy back to real life. She gets a weird satisfaction from rubbing him the wrong way but she’s forgotten they’re not playing some fucked up power game in Slytherin dorms. This is the real world and there is no McGonagall or Snape who’ll send the ones who jinx her to detention.

“I’ll save you from yourself now,” she interrupts him. “From what you were about to say and also from being blindsided when you receive a visit for inspection since I’ll be reporting these to the Ministry as well, just so they know what I’m receiving on my first day. Please take a look at your responsibilities as an employer.” She taps her chin as if in a thought, tilting her head to the side. “I could set up a date for you with my lawyer, if you wish. I’m your assistant after all.”

“Not because I wanted you to be,” Potter reminds her, like she can ever forget. He opens his mouth like he’s about to go for another tirade, like a stupid, stupid fish but a tired looking owl flies in, landing on Pansy’s desk, panting. 

Pansy gives him an odd look. “Just how many owls do you have, Potter?” She takes the letter from the owl and lends it to him when she catches the sight of his name scribbled on top, vaguely familiar.

She examines the owl, barely suppressing her sigh before she reaches down to her drawers to give it a treat, hidden behind her most precious owl poop cleaners.

“I don’t have an owl,” he says, voice strained and the veins in his neck popping out like she’s asked him how many times he shags his girlfriend when she’s away, surrounded by dreamy Quidditch players. 

“How can you not own an owl?” Pansy snorts, filling her glass with water to put it in front of the bird. 

“I’m using an owl service,” he says in a clipped tone, as he reads his letter, his eyes stopping to stare at her for a tiny second. 

Pansy gapes at him. “Do you have any idea how those owls are treated?”

“As if you care how owls are treated,” he mutters but a flush spreads to his face, giving away that he’s never thought about it.

Hypocrite. 

“Believe it or not, I’m very fond of animals. You can see the difference between my owls and these service owls when they come visit me,” she flips her hair back. “I should warn you, you absolutely do not have the permission to use my owls, considering how thoughtless you are about their wellbeing.”

“I wouldn’t trust your owls anyway.”

_ And I don’t trust your elves, _ she wants to hiss back but refrains. She blows her breath through her nose, impressed with herself that she manages to convey her feelings in such a small gesture. The service owl lands on her shoulder, claws digging into her skin and probably ruining her shirt but she’ll throw these away anyway, to get rid of anything that would remind her of this day. 

“Potter,” she starts and he actually looks sheepish for a moment before he jerks his chin up in defiance. “When that day comes, I’ll make sure that they shit on every letter you send and every one you recieve.”

Potter, to her surprise, snorts. “Do your worst.”

Pansy smiles.

“Do your worst, dear,” she says to the bird, letting it nibble on her finger with her eyes on Potter’s.

It takes off, dumping a huge load on Potter’s nest on the way out and Pansy almost pisses herself laughing as Potter stands there with his hands stretched sideways, and with his stupid, gaping mouth.

“Oh come on,” she wheezes when he tries to clean it with a spell, “you can’t do that with a scourify! There are potions for that.” 

She walks over her desk for the poop cleaner and rolls her eyes when Potter yelps after patting his head tentatively, glaring at his hand. “It’s just owl poop,” she extends the bottle, examining his hair. There will be leftovers for sure. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.” 

Potter grudgingly takes the bottle from her hands, glancing at the bottle discreetly with a flush on his face, not meeting her eyes. “Why do you keep this with you?” 

Pansy turns back, pretending to be busy with the letters to give him privacy to check the potion for poisons, or whatever he’s thinking she’s doing. 

“My owls are not very well behaved,” she chuckles with fondness, despite the sinking feeling in her stomach to know he’s actually checking for it. That’s what she gets for trying to be nice. She desperately needs a few weeks in Slytherin dorms, surrounded by teenage drama and schemes to put her in best form.

She adds cheerily when Potter gags after uncapping the bottle, “They tend to shit on people’s heads whenever they’re annoyed.”

“Is this going to be a problem?” 

“I can not foresee their behavior, Mr. Potter,” she says, clearing her throat to hide her amusement. She gives him a close lipped smile that probably borders on unhinged in his eyes. “But they’re clever creatures. They are very wise about people.” 

Potter smiles back but it looks empty and somehow, scary. He stretches out his arm to give the vial back, but opens his fingers too early as if he’s afraid she might touch his fingers.

It falls to the floor, and Pansy winces, covering her face with her arms in reflex while Potter shouts “Protego!”, causing the pieces to fly towards her. 

She feels some of the pieces get stuck in her palms and hisses in pain but keeps her arms up to protect her face. 

“Fuck,” Potter yells, dropping the shield. “Why did you do that?”

Pansy grits her teeth, exhaling hard through her nose and inspects her hand, relieved to find there are only a few small cuts that’ll heal in no time. 

One per cent, she repeats in her head. 

“Why didn’t you cast a protego?” Potter says, his voice considerably softer, taking a step towards her after clearing the mess with the wave of his hand. 

His hands hover in the air like he is holding himself back from touching her, and it almost warms her chest before she remembers why this happened in the first place.

“It’s alright, Mr. Potter,” she says, her voice so emotionless that even she feels a bit disturbed, hearing it. She walks back to sit behind her desk and grabs a tissue to swat at the remaining glass. Potter watches her with shrewd eyes but doesn’t mention that she doesn’t use a wand and she’s pathetically grateful. 

“Did you arrange the meeting with Mr. Entwhistle?” he asks after he watches quietly for almost a minute. 

She almost slams her hands down on the desk but refrains because she doesn’t want to hurt herself further. 

“I was quite busy,” she snaps.

He raises an unimpressed brow. “Maybe you would’ve had more time if you didn’t waste time on your personal vendetta.”

“Apparently we both hold grudges, Mr. Potter,” she purses her lips, leaning back in her chair to glare at him. 

“What a great starting point for a relationship,” he states drily, the coldness in his eyes making Pansy regret talking back. 

“I’ll do it now,” she grumbles. 

“Go down to the kitchen first,” he says, words tumbling out like he’s saying them before he can lose his courage. “Your food is getting cold.” 


	7. The Old Enemy

Pansy finds a bottle of high quality Owl Poop Cleaner on her table the next day and she almost draws a wand at the sight of it, Ministry issued or not. She’s on the edge after running into Potter at the bottom of the stairs, where he left with a simple “I’ll be back in the afternoon,”, without sparing a glance at her. 

Her first instinct is to throw it in the bin because who knows what Potter put in it? But the tag is intact and decides to believe that Potter is not vindictive enough to poison her on her second day. 

Nevertheless, one does not survive in their world without being a tad cynical. She puts it in the back of her drawer, and tells herself not to think about it. Her skin prickles with growing intensity as the clock ticks on, knowing it’s sitting there.

She takes it out for inspection after two hours. 

She’s not being paranoid. It might be what it looks like. It might be a device to eavesdrop on her. 

It might be an evaporating Lust Potion. He  _ could _ fire her on the grounds of sexual assault.

The back and forth goes on the whole morning, her nausea getting stronger with each hour until she gets dizzy with it, unable to stomach eating the plain biscuits she bought from the market. She sips her chamomile tea she found down in the kitchen, drawing on her hand with a pen to pass time until her stomach settles. 

Her fingers jerk when a knock startles her out of her state, ruining her drawing of a swan. The man responsible for her dilemma stands there, hands in his pockets and shoulders hunched, like he’s the one who’s in someone else’s house. He nibbles on his lips, his eyes on the bottle like he’d spent just as much time staring at it as she had. “Is this a good one?”

Pansy hesitates on what to say. Should she insult his choice even though it’s a good one, or should she thank him for his thoughtfulness? 

“It’ll do the job,” she says, giving him a smile that’s probably miles away from being charming. 

Potter shuffles his feet like he wants to say something else, the lines around his mouth and between his brows deepening. He looks older than Andy for a moment. 

She wants to put an end to his misery by telling him she has things to do but he beats him to it.

“I read some of the letters.” 

Her shoulders tense. She spent last night dreaming about the words she read yesterday, slipping in and out of consciousness. She’s never been a peaceful sleeper. When she was a small child, she made up stories out of everything she heard or saw in their house. When she was in Hogwarts, she was always wary of her roommates, never letting herself to have a deep sleep, ready to wake up at the slightest noise. 

When she looks back at it now, she realises they were more afraid of her than she was of them. 

Potter is still looking at her but Pansy doesn’t have anything to say to him. 

“I just wanted to say…” he clears his throat, tugging at this collar, ruining someone else’s labor to make him presentable. Pansy’s left eye twitches because of how much time he’s taking. 

“Your life is not in any danger as long as you work here.” 

“I thought that was a given,” she shifts in her seat, not looking at his way, “not something you grant me out of the greatness of your heart.”

He blows a deep breath and mumbles to himself something she can’t figure out. She doesn’t ask for a clarification and cuts in when he opens his mouth with a determined frown. 

“Your meeting with the planners is at two p.m.,” she tells him, rapping her nails on the desk. Potter’s eyes fly to stare at her hands for a few seconds but snap back to her face quickly. 

“Today?” 

“Yes,” she says, blinking at him. 

“Did you ask me before you made that appointment?” 

“No,” she says after a pause, feeling her cheeks blush, the tone throwing her back a few years back in memories, when she was being questioned over the inquisitional squad. She clears her throat when Potter glares harder. “I checked your calendar.”

Potter closes his eyes like he’s trying to keep his temper in check, rubbing his stubble. When he speaks, it’s uncharacteristically polite. “Who was supposed to be filling out my calendar before you, Miss Parkinson?” 

Getting fired because of incompetence sounds likely, she thinks, swallowing thickly a few times to gain her voice back. “Well, I thought.” She stops, unable to find an excuse because she wasn’t actually thinking yesterday when she made the appointment. 

She should’ve asked, she realises with dawning horror. She starts to prepare herself to apologize, or at least promise it’ll not happen again when Potter reminds her who he is. 

“Did you? Really?” Potter glowers like she’s more of a burden than any help, and Pansy’s breath hitches in her throat, the familiar feeling of being useless, a weight, a chain, surrounds her. 

But she can’t let him walk over her even if her mere presence makes his life harder. 

“I thought,” she presses, squaring her shoulders, “since you don’t have a job, you’d be free on a Tuesday afternoon in your house.”

“Do you not think this is a job?”

“A job is what you do to earn money,” she drawls, “Not something you do to keep busy. ”

“You think I do this for pleasure,” Potter states dumbly, his eyes going distant. 

“I do not care about what you do for your pleasure in Mr. Potter,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm, making Potter’s face become alive again. His nostrils flare, mouth set in a thin line. 

It should be an off putting sight. He should look like McGonagall but it only manages to draw attention to the sharp line of his nose when he twists his neck like he can’t bear to look at her. She forces herself to go on before her gaze strays down. “But your calendar was clear and you told me you’d be here for the afternoon.”

“To meet with Hermione.” His mouth twists in a smile, like he’s imagining things even the Savior of the Wizarding World can get away with. 

_ It’s only Granger _ ,  _ for fuck’s sake,  _ she almost says. Chewing on the inside of her cheek to keep it in, she straightens the papers in front of her. “You should’ve told me.” She crosses her arms, raising a brow in defiance when Potter’s eyes widen, the forced smile disappearing. 

“You should’ve asked me, Parkinson.”

_ One percent. _

“I’ll ask the next time.”

“Go on,” he says flatly, “tell Hermione that I can’t meet her because you overbooked. I’ll deal with the planners.”

***

She sits back on her seat and forces herself to breathe deeply for two minutes straight to calm down when Potter storms out of her office but in the silence, she keeps hearing his disdainful tone and seeing his sneer that’s it’s completely useless and she ends up throwing the Owl Poop Cleaner at the wall. 

She stares at the shards with her wide eyes, panting through her nose. 

Someone clears their throat behind her, making her jump out of her skin. She turns back, ready to shout before her eyes settle on a bewildered Andy.

“Miss Parkinson?” 

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Andy’s startled gaze spots the shards and Pansy can see the evolution of her expressions; from panicked to understanding, and from that to anger. 

“I apologize.” She doesn’t have the energy to keep the proud front in front of another person but she can’t start whining about Potter to her. “It slipped my hands,” she says and promptly wants to smack herself across the face. 

Andy’s expression doesn’t waver and she doesn’t point out the ridiculousness of her excuse. She nods, waving the wand she had out towards the mess and vanishes it. 

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she says after a full minute of silence. Pansy lifts her eyes to stare at her face, and her heart twists in her chest to find her smiling, with her warm eyes glinting mischievously. “This house makes me want to break things too.”

An uninhibited chuckle leaves her mouth, and Pansy realises this is probably the fifth time Andy made her laugh with a simple statement. 

“I don’t think I can afford to make an enemy out of Kreacher.”

Andy snorts, and shakes her head. “I’ve never seen him so happy since the day I came back to visit Harry here. You don’t have anything to worry about on that front.” 

“Don’t want to push it.”

She hums noncommittally, suddenly distracted. “I saw Harry heading to the drawing room.” 

“Yes, the gala planners.”

“Finally,” she claps her hands together, “we’ve been avoiding it. Thank you.”

She clears her throat, flustered by her knowing gaze on her. Her hand goes to her hair like the times Flitwick or McGonagall showed their affirmation for her work and she tangles them together to keep still. “You’re welcome.” 

Andy hesitates for a moment. It’s almost imperceptible but Pansy is a Parkinson, raised in a society where you have to keep your eyes open for any signs of hostility to danger. 

“You mind keeping Hermione company until we’re finished?”

Her stomach drops, her fingers and toes going numb. She nods, afraid of squeaking out the words and pushes herself to her feet. 

“I’ll head to the meeting room now,” Andy says when she keeps quiet for too long. “Don’t hesitate to come in if something happens.”

She fumbles to grab a notebook and a quill and gives her a massive smile that she hopes looks genuine. “Alright,” she says, “I’ll be off now.”

Pansy watches her go with her notebook clutched tightly to her chest and drops the smile when she disappears from the view. She curses out loud and fills her glass with water to gulp it down before she nods purposefully to herself to face one Mrs. Granger-Weasley.

***

Granger is glaring down on a stack of papers when she walks into the kitchen and it makes the knot in her chest loosen a little bit in her chest to know some things have remained the same. 

Her head whips up when Pansy makes her steps heavier on purpose. She stares at her, her expression unchanged before she stands up, putting her quill down as if she wants to make it clear that her whole attention is on Pansy. 

She has transformed into a real politician. Potter could use it to learn a few lessons from her. Pansy hates it, but the expression on her face is far from hostile, even though she’s not smiling.

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley,” she greets her and to her surprise, she snorts. 

“What was I thinking when I got that name?” 

She remembers the Howlers Weasleys received quite often. “That you shouldn’t aggravate your in-laws further?” 

Granger lifts a single shoulder in defeat and perches back on her seat when Pansy starts for the cabinets to make herself a drink. “Do you want anything?”

Granger replies a few seconds late. “Whatever you’re having.”

“Alright,” she mumbles, taking two cups out of the cupboard to make some instant coffee. She tries to get the kettle working, pushing the button several times, muttering sweet nothings to the machine to convince it. But it resists no matter how many times she tries, fucking Blacks and their freaky house.

It’s a harsh truth to face but she’ll have to do it the slow way when she’s in this building. 

She grabs a pot and fills it with water, lighting the fire wandlessly, in case she burns the whole house down if she tries to use the wand they gave her.

“Milk?” 

“Please.”

She prefers to put the milk cold for her coffee but she’s heard many complaints about it before and she doesn’t want one now about something so trivial. She heats it up as well, grimacing at the cream pooling at the top. 

When it’s done, she clears the bench and puts her coffee back so he won’t hear about it from Potter, who’ll hear from Kreacher without a doubt. She turns back with two cups in her hands, a few drops spilling on her fingers when her eyes meet Granger’s, feeling rather uneasy to realise she didn’t feel her staring.

“Easy there,” she jumps out of her seat and takes one of the cups from her hand, grabbing some napkins to wipe the drops that spilled on the coaster.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, a flush spreading across her cheeks. 

Her brows furrow. She shakes her head vehemently, a few strands escaping the knot on the top of her head. Her mouth moves but Pansy can’t figure out what she’s saying under her breath. She pretends it’s something nice. 

They sip their coffees for the first time at the same moment, and Pansy keeps her eyes on her face to spot any distaste. 

“I didn’t know Harry had coffee in the house,” she says when she puts the cup down. 

Pansy chuckles despite herself. She bought it from the market on her way here this morning. “He didn’t. It was a bit of a nasty shock for me when I found out.” 

“He’s a bit of a health fanatic,” she says, with a quiver to her lips. 

Pansy groans, rolling her neck along with her eyes because  _ she’s noticed.  _

Yesterday when she came down to get herself some food before the vomiting fiasco, she had taken a look at the pantry and found only healthy foods. No processed foods, a truly impressive collection of tea bags from around the world.

It’s another con of working here. 

“Kreacher told me he doesn’t allow him to put salt in the meals,” she snickers, regretting it as soon as she says it.

Granger throws her head back in laughter. 

“He wasn’t like this until Teddy was born,” she says, her voice laced with affection. “You’d think Andromeda would be the one to force him to eat his vegetables but she’s actually the one that sneaks out for ice cream.” 

Pansy smiles but finds herself at loss to say anything else. Her eyes jump from one thing to another to find something to say and almost fists the air in victory when she finds it. 

“I like your earrings.”

“I like your necklace.” 

They stare at each other for a second before they both avert their eyes, feeling caught. 

Pansy touches her earrings with a fingertip, feeling the sharp edge and offers something personal. It’s vulnerable but for some reason, she wants to share. 

“It was what my mum wore in her wedding.”

“It’s beautiful,” Granger says, her voice devoid of any aggressiveness that the mention of her parents’ name invokes in her social circle. “Harry got this for me for our wedding.”

Pansy examines the necklace, a delicate golden crown with small pearls adorning the jewellery. It causes a pang of longing in her chest but she shakes it off. 

“Potter has great taste.”

“Oh, no,” she waves her hand around with a massive grin, “it was Ginny’s pick. I knew the second my eyes landed on it.”

“Oh” she says. She’d seen the article this morning in the Daily Prophet, describing Giverva Weasley as “the best dressed athlete in Britain”.

“How have you been?” Granger asks, her clever eyes intent on her face, like she’s waiting to catch her on a lie. “I haven’t seen you since-“

“Bulgaria, yes,” she cuts her off, irritated. 

“Yeah, that was unattractive business.”

“Don’t know,” she shrugs, “I didn’t stay to see it unravel.”

Granger’s eyes narrow and Pansy remembers this is the girl who scarred a girl for life for ratting Dumbledore’s Army out.

“You’ve been here the whole time?” she asks, laced with suspicion. Pansy doesn’t see how she could’ve made the jump and actually guess right and it makes her stomach twist in an unpleasant way. She feels cornered, predictable. But it’s her fault for letting her guard down.

“Yeah,” she says, putting on an admirable show of restraint by snapping at her.

“I didn’t realise.”

“That was my intention.”

Granger hums and takes another sip, raising an eyebrow, clearly in question. 

She gives out a low laugh, and bites into the corner of her lip, trying to decide what to say to her. 

“I’ve been staying with the Muggles,” she admits in the end, “it has its charms.”

“It does,” she agrees and doesn’t show if she’s surprised. “Internet especially.”

“I was thinking more in the line of telly and the cinema,” she laughs, unwilling to share she didn’t want to pay for it with her tight budget. “I like the ones about magic. It’s quite funny how inaccurate they are.” 

Granger’s mouth turns up in a half smile but her face turns solemn in a second. “Now you’re back.”

“I’ll be gone again,” she replies. “I don’t have any intention to stay in the wizarding world.”

Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, the first sign that she’s caught off guard. “Why?” 

“Don’t have anything for me here,” she says with a careless wave. Her heart gives a twinge like it’s protesting. She’s told herself this many times but she still hadn’t managed to get used to it. It’s true, but it doesn’t make it any less tragic. She still doesn’t know how to deal with this particular revelation.

“You could take a job you’re interested in.”

“There’s not a single job I’m interested in magical Britain.”

“Sounds like you really enjoy the Muggle world.”

_ Enjoy is a bit of a stretch _ , she thinks. “It’s charming. And it’s refreshing to see new faces.”

Granger is visibly dubious and she doesn’t make an attempt to hide it.

“I didn’t think I’d live to hear you saying you prefer to live with muggles.”

“Yeah, me neither,” she chuckles without humour, a callous sound. She turns her eyes away towards her notebook, embarrassed for giving out as much as she did. She opens it without seeing the words and starts scribbling on it. 

When she blinks, it’s to see she’s written “I should’ve picked SPEW.”

***

After two full minutes of pretending to work to avoid looking up, Pansy has had enough. She sends Kreacher up to her room to bring the snacks that she’d been avoiding eating for the last few days because she noticed she hadn’t been glowing like she used to.

Granger refuses, much to her delight. Pansy examines her skin while she chews, 

Granger seems to have grown out of pimples, she notes with a hint of jealousy. Pansy still breaks out when she’s stressed or eats too much grisly chips. She wants to ask what’s her secret but she doesn’t want to reveal any more weaknesses, even if it’s something trivial like this. 

Granger refuses the second cup of coffee and the third. She watches her drink the last one with a slightly perturbed look. 

“Coffee is bad for your teeth,” she blurts out, grimacing like she wants to take her words back as soon as she says it. 

Pansy shrugs. She’s heard that one before. “Muggle teethologists do whitening. No big deal.”

“It’s not foolproof though.”

_ How does she know everything?  _ Pansy squints at her mouth, trying to see her teeth. “How do you know that?”

“My parents are dentists,” she answers, giving her the view of her neat, pearly,  _ perfect _ teeth.

Pansy stares at her, trying to decide if it’s too forward to ask for a discount right then. Granger looks more uncomfortable as time goes on under her scrutiny and Pansy watches her without saying anything, keeping her face straight as Granger wriggles in her seat, eyes roaming the kitchen as if she hadn’t seen this ugly place before. She’s cracking her knuckles, sighing repeatedly and tapping her feet on the floor.

“That’s bad for your joints,” Pansy says, trying to hold back a laugh when she jolts in her seat. 

“I know,” Granger chuckles, averting her eyes, “I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”

Pansy is saved from trying to find a response when two distinct voices get louder, stairs creaking with each step, a good way to stave off the thieves. 

Andy is the first one to enter the room and she beams when she spots the chips on the table, grabbing a handful under everyone’s gazes. Granger recovers first and gets up to kiss her on the cheeks while she’s still chewing, then pulling Potter into a tight hug that Potter returns after a moment of hesitation.

“Sorry, Hermione,” Potter says, his eyes falling on Pansy for a moment, mouth tightening and hands flexing on Granger’s shoulders where he’s keeping them to look at her face.

“No it’s alright,” she says too quickly, “I brought my work here.”

Pansy can swear Potter somehow puts a knife through her stomach with a single glare.

She dips her chin down and throws a chip in her mouth to avoid looking at them but her chewing echoes in the room and her shoulders stiffen. She orders herself to relax but it’s like someone is pushing her from behind to make her curl into a ball. 

She stares at her oily fingers, trying to choose between licking them or rubbing it on her pants. She decides to go for the latter, because suddenly she’s sweating and she has to adjust her clothes. 

“You’re too kind,” he whispers into Hermione’s ear but Pansy always had sensitive hearing. Her eyes burn, hoping that Andy missed it.

“I love these,” Andy says loudly, proving that her wishes are useless. She sits next to her, crossing her legs. “Harry never lets me have these at home.”

“I’ll bring some to your office,” she says, her voice weaker than usual, but still clear.

“Is this what you had gone to do while we were at the meeting?” Potter cuts in before Andy can say anything.

She doesn’t move her body and pops another before she answers. “No, I sent Kreacher.” 

“Good use of your time.” His words are accompanied by a scalding glare and Pansy curls further into herself, wanting to melt into her seat. He throws some papers on the table and they scatter before her. Her eye ticks in the corner while she reaches for the one that travelled all the way to Granger’s spot, firmly grasping them like an anchor.

“Their secretary’s notes,” Potter adds, after the most uncomfortable minute of her life, his voice more polite as if he’s regretting the way he acted. Or more possibly, Granger is glaring daggers at him.

Pansy nods, not speaking for fear of tripping over her words.

She looks over the papers and taps on the “food and drinks” with her knuckle. “I got this covered.”

“Oh, you’re fast,” Andy exclaims, a bit over the top, throwing a sly look to Potter, “Can you give me the details, darling?” 

“When did you learn about this?” 

“Yesterday morning,” she smiles, “when we were waiting for you.”

“We will talk about it”

“But I’ve been told you’ve got horrendous taste.”

“I suppose you get your tastes from reading trashy magazines which tell women they aren't enough in one issue, and in the next talk about girl power?”

“My tastes are hereditary, Mr Potter,” she swiftly gets down from her seat, patting her bottom. “But I read those magazines only to train my owls to take a dump on your atrocious hair when they see you. Now that I can bring them here, I have no use for them anymore.”

She sweeps the room with her eyes, unable to muster a smile for a flabbergasted Granger or an amused Andy. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

***

Pansy had wasted twenty minutes imagining all the things she could’ve said to Potter, but not even the best comebacks help to ease her anger.

_ Someone _ bangs on her door, the bookshelves trembling dangerously. She clenches her teeth and takes two deep breaths before she calls the bastard in. 

“What took you so long?” he demands, slipping into the room when the shelves are halfway turned. 

“Couldn’t hear it at first.”

Potter blinks, staring at her like he’s forgotten why he came here for. His chin jerks up when he gets the meaning and a blush spreads to his cheeks. 

“You should be coming up and seeing if I need anything every once in a while instead of lounging in your room.”

“Andy has told me you detest being interrupted,” she crosses her legs, her heart lurching with something similar to satisfaction when his eyes stay there for a second too long. 

“I do,” he points at the purple book, “You’re supposed to tap at this when you need to see me. If I’m available it’ll turn orange.”

“Alright,” she says with a straight face. “If that’s how you like to do it.”

Potte nose scrunches up and it takes him too long to answer again, like there’s a glitch in his brain. She hopes it’s only a temporary thing. 

“I want you to make an appointment with Hermione, Ron and George.”

It sounds like a fairly easy task to her, so she’s baffled by the self satisfied half grin on his face, before it hits her that she has to reach all of them. She can bet her salary they’re going to make it a hell for her. 

“As you wish,” she grits out. “Do you have a preference for location?” 

He hums to himself, pushing up his smudged glasses up his nose. They’re not the ugly ones he’d been wearing at Hogwarts, so she assumes it has to be Andy’s influence. 

Or Ginevra Weasley’s. 

“You arrange something and I’ll see if that works.”

Pansy sees red. 

She jumps to her feet, her chair tumbling down, echoing in the room. Potter winces, his eyes going wide in surprise for a moment when she stops just half a step between them. 

When the chair falls silent, the only sound in the room is their harsh breathing. 

“You can hate me all you want in your free time,” she says, pressing on each syllable. “But you have to show me respect. Especially in front of others.”

“I’m under no obligation to show you anything,” he bends down until they are nose to nose, with a twist to his lips that would’ve been beautiful if not for the scorn in his eyes. “Especially in front of others. Respect is earned and you've done nothing in your life to demand that.”

_ I could tilt my head back and kiss you _ , she thinks, and almost follows her instinct to erase that smirk off his face. But there’s still a piece of self preservation in her and she contends herself with laughing at his face. 

“Fake it, then.”

Laughing at his face is just as efficient as kissing him, but with much less severe consequences, she notes in her mind for future reference.

“It’s not something I excel at,” Potter says, his ugly, mocking expression cleared. “You are going to have to be better at your job.”

“What do I have to do to _ earn _ your respect then? Do I need to do whatever Malfoys are doing?” she asks, words tumbling out of her mouth like she’d been harboring them, feeding them, waiting for the right moment. There’s a weight off her chest, and she can finally breathe easier now that she’s said them.

Potter’s eyes flash, the corner of his mouth parting the show his teeth and Pansy recognizes that fire. She’s seen it before when he looked at Umbridge, at Snape, at Goyle. 

“They’re compromising.”

Pansy curls her hands into fists and her long fingernails -the nail polish already fading- bite into her palms. There is a strangely powerful urge invading her veins, to grab his face in her hands, trail her fingers over his bones before she sinks them in his eye sockets, reaching to that useless sack of meat he calls a brain. 

“They’re only telling you tales you want to hear,” she closes the last gap between them, tapping his shoulder with a finger. “And you love it that they’re doing that kneeling in front of you.”

Potter doesn’t flinch away from her touch, his eyes going misty as he listens to her without giving away a single clue on what he’s thinking. 

“Do you know what you’re missing?”

He doesn’t even breathe. 

“They’ve got their fingers crossed behind their backs.”

He  _ smiles _ . He grabs the finger that still lays on his shoulder and lets their hands hang between their bodies, not letting it go.

“Do you know what  _ you’re _ missing?”

Pansy yanks her finger back, and shrugs.

“It’s so easy to break a finger.”

She takes a step back, hugging his elbows to herself as knees wobble. She focuses on her aching feet. Wishes she’d worn her flats. Wishes she was back in Bulgaria.

“Parkinson,” he throws his head back to laugh, giving her a full view of his nostrils. “I didn’t think the day you’d make me laugh would come.”

Her voice comes out shaky despite her best efforts. “I like to defy the expectations.”

Potter’s eyes grow colder, and Pansy is impressed by his capacity to hate. “You only managed to defy the expectations of your job since you started.”

Bile rises up in her throat, and she can taste the horrible coffee she filled her stomach with. She swallows a few times to get rid of the taste but it resists. 

“You shouldn’t have had any expectations of your assistant other than what’s expected from them for the job.”

“Can you say you didn’t?” 

“I can say I didn’t let it affect my professionalism before you started this pissing contest.”

Potter cocks an eyebrow like he doesn’t even deign to use his words. 

“I see this is personal,” Pansy mutters to herself.

“It is.” 

She should be taken aback. This should’ve been a confession. But Potter is as transparent as a recently wiped window on the first floor.

“It wasn't personal to me, Potter,” she says flatly. “I would've given over anyone there.”

Potter’s mouth falls open. “Oh, this will make me sleep better at night.”

She sighs, bending down to straighten her chair. She is  _ half sure _ he won’t kill her when her back is turned. She sits back down, facing him just in case. “I know, that's why I’m telling you this. Process it and stop making it personal.”

“Is this your demand?” He asks after a pause, his gaze boring into her face. “To make this as impersonal as possible?”

“Yes, think me as a fucking kettle if you want, Potter,” she huffs, not bothering to hide her dismay, slouching in her seat. “You know what a kettle is for and you don't get angry at the kettle for having served the guy next door five years ago.”

“So you confess-”

“It’s a fucking analogy Potter-”

“Is this a tactic? Using muggle things?”

“Merlin, he’s paranoid,” she mumbles, her eyes traveling from the top of his head to his greyish shoes. “You should’ve been in Slytherin.”

“I fared well enough in Gryffindor,” he walks towards the door like he’d lost interest in talking to her. He angles his head to throw her a meaningful glance. “Turns out not everyone has to internalise Slytherin tactics.”

“You should, though.” 

“Are you threatening me?”

Pansy giggles, entertaining herself with the idea for a moment. “What am I going to threaten you with? With the wand that can’t even cast Lumos properly?”

“But there are other ways, isn’t it? You’ve got a decent enough lawyer to get away with it.”

Pansy is truly confused for the first time that day. “What do you think I’ve gotten away with?”

He releases the doorknob and turns back to her, his face open and eager.  _ He thinks he’s got me where he needs _ , she muses.

“Why don't you tell me?”

“Why don't you ask your friends?” she shots back, giving an incredulous laugh. “They were there the whole year. Hell, Longbottom gave a statement for my trial. Your girlfriend too.”

“They only saw what you did to them,” he dismisses, “What about others? The muggleborns that are obliviated?”

“I don't even know how to use that spell,” she says, her voice steady but she has to blink furiously to keep the tears at bay. She holds her hand up in the air when he opens his mouth to continue arguing, swallowing to get rid of the lump stuck in her throat. 

She gets up and opens the door. “This is not about what I say Potter,” she says, her eyes fixed on his ugly, dirty shoes. “This is about what you believe. And I’m done trying to explain myself, so I think it’s best if you give me an errand right now other than running after your friends.”

Potter’s fingers twitch on his sides, like he wants to strangle her. “Start with the gala location, then work from there,” he grits out.

“I’ve already started,” she rattles the door open with unnecessary force, and slams it behind him when he finally leaves the room.

She only regrets it because she can’t see the expression on his face.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we've been chatting about dreams and life in general when we realised our dreams might be happening because of this fic. i dont know if we should be worried
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter!


	8. Chance Meetings

Among the many problems Pansy has, finding a place for gala ranks first. 

After she shooed Potter out, she threw herself out of Grimmauld Place and went looking for a place to hold Potter’s gala, turning back to her neighbourhood when she got declined three times in a row, even after she told she works for Mr Harry James Potter. 

She’d talked to Harry the Baker for the desserts first and had a deal with him in about ten minutes. She didn’t miss the excitement in his gestures when she entered his place or when he heard about the business deal. He had been proud, as if she’s his daughter-in-law and seemed to have gotten a promotion. 

She went to the pancake woman next and ordered a three course meal from the advance Andy had given her for the preparations. She’d ditched the idea of a steak dinner quickly enough after she put the first bite in her mouth, trying to swallow the dry meat with the wine she ordered.

After that, she gathered her courage and went back to Diagon Alley to search for other options. It didn’t take long before she accepted no one was going to rent her a place in London. 

Two hours later she had a suspicion everyone had a secret deal not to make business with her, even in Croydon. 

The bells strike midnight and Pansy is soaked to the bone but she doesn’t have enough fire in her to run to her house, to warmth, to safety. Her skin is colder than it has ever been, colder than it was when she was out of gas last winter and the window in her room refused to close or when she was hiding outside the castle to avoid stumbling across the Carrows without her winter robes on. 

She tries to fasten the buttons on her flimsy coat but her freezing fingers won't respond, and she decides to drop the attempt when a pain shoots up her arm from the icy weather, and slides her hands in her pockets to keep her fingers in the least. 

When she turns the second to last corner to her home she is struck by the view since she hadn’t used this road for a while, her last job being in the opposite direction. It’s one of the restaurants that she never had the opportunity to try, a small Greek taverna painted white and light blue, almost a defiance against the dark colours of the street. 

Pansy stops, distinctly aware that she can now feel the droplets finding their way from the back of her shirt down her back. A wave of memories flood her mind from when she was five, ten, fifteen, with her parents, cruising around the small unknown islands that had more wizards than Muggles and even more beaches than both combined. 

She aches for her mother, who always put sunscreen on her shoulders no matter how much Pansy struggled, even when Pansy outgrew her in height, coaxing her with lemonade that she brought from home each time.

And she misses her father like a limb that she had taken for granted. Like her wand. Her father, who bought two tickets for a Muggle bus ride to Turkey for a late dinner when Pansy wanted to have a story she could tell her mother, who was stuck in her ghastly cousin Rosica’s house listening to a story about her last business attempt. 

She can hear the silverware clinking and low murmurs coming from inside, tempting her to go in and have a warm meal and something to drink to numb her thoughts. But it feels like a betrayal, allowing herself to comfort with the memories of them when she doesn’t allow them to come near her. 

After one last look, she bows her head down and fastens her steps. 

*******

There’s no one to welcome her home, and she knows something is up.

When Pansy strolls into the sitting room about two seconds later to check for the cats, she immediately notices Margaret, who has her legs drawn up on the sofa, hugging her knees. 

What’s more striking than Margaret in her house is the sight of Rowena snuggled to her thigh.

All color is bleached from her friend’s face, leaving her ashen except for her glittering eyes fixated on her greenish walls that she didn’t bother painting when she moved in. 

Pansy wishes she knew if it was from terror, or happiness. 

“This is heartwarming,” she says, slapping a hand over her mouth when Margaret bolts up, and whirls to face Pansy, eyes alert and body tense. Her skin whitens further when Rowena stretches beside her before she hops down with a meow to rub against Pansy’s leg. 

Perhaps Margaret is recalling her memories of that cat attempting to murder her when she was a wee girl, Pansy muses. 

Pansy dissolves into hysterics when Margaret lets out an undignified hiss of relief, only to shriek in terror when Godric jumps down from the bookshelf.

“Barrel of laugh, you are.”

“I was this close to quitting everything,” Pansy says, her voice coming out in a rasp as she continues to laugh, her fingers merely an inch apart for emphasis.

Margaret doesn’t take her eyes off the cats. “You are such a prig.”

Pansy lifts a hand to her neck to drop her scarf to the floor, followed by her dripping coat. She picks up Godric from the floor, sinking her face in his fur and inhaling, ignoring his protests and squirming. 

Her eyes meet Rowena’s green ones on the floor and she lets out a coo, grabbing her by the belly to put a kiss on her head. Rowena misses Salazar when he’s gone and the owls prefer not to stay at home when there are Muggles around. 

Pansy puts Rowena down without pushing her luck. She has a strict quota for affection for anyone other than her other half. 

“Okay,” Pansy says when she’s calmed down a bit, hovering over Margaret with Godric in her arms as her shield in case she does something she can not remember. “I know I’ve given you the keys and everything, but I never expected you to use it.”

She huffs. “Believe me Pansy, I wanted to set myself on fire the second I stepped inside.” Her eyes sweep her from head to toe, wincing when she spots her heels, covered in muck. “I came in to check up on you because it’s been  _ days _ and I had to air the house to get rid of the smell of cat litter.” 

She casts a nervous glance at Rowena and leans in to whisper with a touch of frenzy in her voice. “They were  _ ravenous _ . I was terrified that they were going to eat my legs.”

Pansy shakes her head and answers with keen eyes, patting her shoulder. “They’re not into human meat.” 

She tries to walk around her to sit but Margaret gives her an unimpressed glare and stops her with a foot. “Go shower first. You’re dripping.”

She groans to put on a show but it’s been her intention from the start. She’s already sniffing and her throat feels sore. 

Margaret plasters on a knowing, placating smile. “I’ve cooked you pasta,” she adds. Pansy perks up at that, almost abandoning the idea of getting into warm clothes, trying to smell the food through her clogged nose.

“You can’t have it until you’re clean,” comes a second later, and Pansy sniffs in derision, wiping her nose to her wrist before she turns her back to do as she’s told. 

“Leave the cat,” Margaret calls behind her from the kitchen, peeking to glare at her. When Pansy squeezes Godric tighter, batting her eyelashes, Margaret holds up the cat food and gives it a shake, causing Godric to jump from her arms with one languid move. 

“That’s cheating,” she informs her, closing the door behind her pointedly. 

Pansy doesn’t allow herself to dwell on what to tell Margaret when she gets out and focuses on warming up her skin, letting the scaling water pour over her head but it doesn’t work on the coldness that seems to originate from inside.

She steps out of the bathroom, dressed in her bathrobe and strides into the sitting room without bothering to put some real clothes on.

“Hey,” she calls first this time not to scare Margaret again. She finds her sitting on the arm of her two person sofa, her legs dangling as she cranes her neck to stare at the books. 

“Have you read these?”

“Give it here,” Pansy ignores her question, her eyes on the cup in her hands. “I need it.”

“Why were you this close to quitting everything?” Margaret ignores back, cutting straight to the point. 

Pansy gives a loud sigh, plucks the cup straight from her hands and drowns it in one gone. It scalds her tongue and her throat but she’s still trembling from the cold. 

”Jesus, go sit over there,” Margaret says with worry etched into her voice. Pansy lets herself be manhandled to the sofa and fixes her gaze on the floor. 

A familiar blanket is thrown over her and she pulls it closer to her, curling into a small ball. 

“Can you turn up the heat?”

Margaret’s face appears before her eyes, towering over her even crouching. “It’s already overheated here.”

“I’m cold.”

“Alright,” Margaret looks around with a touch of panic in her features. “Pansy-“ she gives her a little shake, and Pansy whines, trying to get away from her touch. 

“What?”

She lifts the blanket over her face and whispers, “I think you might be sick.”

Pansy stares at her. “Why are you whispering?”

“I’ve never looked after a sick person.”

“I’m not sick,” Pansy sniffs, trying to hide it into her shoulder, “Have you ever seen me sick before?”

“No because I always assumed you’ve always looked like you’re sorely lacking in vitamins.”

“I’ll be fine after a good sleep,” she promises, trying to recall if she has any Pepper Up left in the house. 

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“That’s it,” Margaret declares, trying to sound authoritative, but she sounds like a kindergarten child playing the mum. “I’m taking you to hospital.”

“Don’t even try,” Pansy kicks at the air, missing her with mere inches, “I’m just exhausted.” 

Margaret lays a cool hand on her forehead and Pansy almost groans at how relieving it feels. “You’re burning.”

“I’m always like a furnace,” she slides deeper into the blanket, wrapping her arms around her knees.

“You’re anemic,” she says blandly. Pansy hums in agreement because she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. 

“Fine,” Margaret’s voice jolts her just when she is about to fall asleep. “Be that way. I’m going up to relax and get rid of cat hair. I’ll check up on you in a bit.”

“Feed the cats.”

“They’re on a diet now.”

****

The grass underneath Harry’s bare feet tantalisingly caresses his sole as he runs across the field with nothing but his wand in hand. He’s wearing his Auror robes with tears on his sleeve from accidentally letting himself be caught by an offending rowan branch next to his shabby hideout tent. 

The safe house is in the middle of what was once a Muggle farmland, and Harry can nearly taste the magic in the air. A singular light flickers in the distance, and Harry slows down to catch his breath and retreat behind a bushel of haphazardly cut and bundled weeds, ready to be burnt. 

He’s too wired to signal for back-up, but he double checks if the charm sticking his Auror badge to his breast holds. 

He’d just have to prick his finger on the tapering corner and wipe the blood on the Auror Office logo, and a team of ten Aurors would Apparate to him, Unplottable Charms be damned. 

His intuition murmurs into his ear _‘not yet’_ so Harry quickly disillusions himself in his position. There’s a good four hundred metre distance between him and the house, and Harry is confident that his _Bombarda_ _Maxima_ can blow it up even from this distance - but it’s not that simple. 

There’s a child inside the house, a girl the same age as Teddy, with a man who had proven he can kill without remorse. 

It’s a miracle that Harry’s team was able to track him down at all, and Harry isn’t going to be the one to fuck this all up by being flashy. Unmasking the identity of the guy - and saving the kid - requires patience and sneaking in and out without setting off any alarm. Not one of Harry’s strong suites, but he’s willing to play this one by the book. 

There’s a thrum in the air, like a thousand fae have decided to hum in unison, and Harry walks out from behind the bushels on tiptoes. He keeps his eye peeled and watches the light from his wand leave a scorch mark on the grass, marking the perimeter of the wards, and leading him to the keystone on which they are anchored. 

_ Gotcha,  _ Harry thinks grimly and follows the trail. The keystone seems to be a common rock from the nearby beach, save for the runic symbols etched deep. Having never taken Ancient Runes or even being remotely interested in them, Harry knows that he can just blow this stone to pieces to bring down the wards and bends down to feel the magic’s heartbeat before he destroys it. 

Evidently, he hasn’t learnt anything because the moment his fingers close over the cool stone, he is whisked away to the inside of a stable, only illuminated by the moonlight. 

His wand clatters helplessly to the floor at his sudden disorientation, and to his horror, Harry realises he needs to dry heave in order for his nausea to subside. 

_ It is a trap,  _ he realizes belatedly and immediately stretches his hand, willing for his wand to somehow find him. He can’t see very well in the dark even with glasses on, but the air is decidedly ominous. 

_ “Accio, _ ” he whispers and stretches his arm, but he can’t hear the sound of his wand flying to him. More firmly, he says, “ _ Accio.” _

There is a rustling now, and Harry’s ears prick up as it comes closer. He further holds out his arm, hoping he can wrap his fingers around the familiar wood. 

Instead, he finds a knife pressed against his throat, and something wet and warm drips down the front of his robes. The moon reflects on the glint of the metal and crimson eyes glow in the dark. 

Harry gulps. 

“Wake up,” a mirthless voice says and slashes the knife across Harry’s throat. 

Gasping for breath, Harry’s hands jump to his throat of their own accord as he shoots up, his heart beating wildly. 

The sudden movement causes Kreacher to jump back in terror and Harry is mildly aware that he is shaking. 

“Master, is you alright?” his elf asks, and Harry can barely nod, shaken from his nightmare. While such nightmares were frequent, it had been a while since Voldemort had appeared in one of his dreams. Kreacher holds a dripping candlestick, and Harry removes his hands from his throat and looks down with a grimace. 

A big dollop of molten wax has fallen on the front of his thin nightshirt. 

Blearily, he takes in his surroundings. 

He seems to have collapsed on his bed, not bothering to remove his shoes or cover himself up with a comforter. His wand is tucked safely in his front pocket, and he sags in relief when he pulls it out and casts a quick  _ Tempus  _ charm. The charm fashions itself into the numerals  _ 02:14  _ and glow crimson in the dark until Harry vanishes them with a shiver. His nightmare is too fresh to associate the colour with anything other than that of Voldemort’s eyes.

“Did I wake you?” Harry asks Kreacher with a touch of regret and the elf shakes his head. 

He throws an ugly look towards a lump of hair at the foot of Harry’s bed before he grumbles, “Kreacher not be sleeping deeply.”

It takes Harry a few owlish blinks to recognize that it’s his dog at the foot of his bed, looking up at him nervously. 

“C’mere, boy,” he mutters, and Snuffles eagerly jumps into his waiting arms, licking all over Harry’s face. He must have scared his poor dog with his twisting and moaning. “There, there. I’m all good, see? You are a very smart dog, aren’t you? I love that you care about me enough to wake up Kreacher -”

“ - he be barking in my ear,” Kreacher supplicates, still glaring at Snuffles. To Harry’s surprise - and a shot of pleasure - Snuffles growls at the elf. 

_ Padfoot would have done the same thing,  _ Harry thinks with a sense of longing and contentment as he watches the antagonism playing out before him. It never failed to surprise him how he missed his godfather in the littlest of things. 

“Thank you for checking on me, Kreacher,” Harry replies and the elf’s chest puffs up in pride. “Is Teddy asleep?”

Andy had floo-ed him late in the night with his godson in tow because she had found a doxy nest hidden inside Teddy’s closet, and Harry had been overjoyed to have his godson over for the next few days as she dealt with the extermination. 

“Young Master Teddy be sleeping soundly, Master,” Kreacher informs him, lips curling up in a startling imitation of a proud grin. Andy had a theory that because Teddy had Regulus’ smile, - a smile she shared - he had captured the old elf’s heart for all eternity. The smile then morphed into a worried frown. 

“Master,” Kreacher says cautiously, “perhaps you be wanting to take the Dreamless Sleep Potion again? Mistress Andy be telling Kreacher to buy some.”

“No,” Harry says, mouth settling into a line. While the potion is a good idea in theory, Harry knows he will wake up in the morning missing huge chunks of the night. “Don’t tell Andy about this one. I mean it.”

“But, Master,” Kreacher protests feebly and Harry has to look away. 

“I don’t want anyone to see me like this,” he says quietly. Snuffles must have picked up on his mournful tone, because he buries himself in Harry’s chest with a sad whine. 

Harry knows already that he won’t be able to go back to sleep after this. 

Nightmares that wake him up always return with a vengeance as he lives out real and imagined scenes in his head, trapped in a realm where he feels every feeling and bleeds with every cut. 

His best bet now is to stay up and read a book or reply to any letters he might have missed.

“Go back to sleep, Kreacher,” he tells the elf, stroking Snuffles’ black fur. “I’ll be fine.”

The elf doesn’t look convinced, but he inclines his head anyway. 

“Krecher be preparing a pot of peppermint tea for Master,” he says. Snuffles’ ears prick up at the word ‘tea’ and he gives an excited little ‘woof’. Kreacher sneers. “And for Master’s troublesome dog.”

Harry pretends to cough to hide his bubbling laughter. 

“Thanks.” 

****

He sincerely regrets his decision to stay up all night when a rainboot sails over his head from across the living room, courtesy of one flame haired godson currently in the middle of an almighty tantrum. 

“I don’t wanna,” Teddy screams and kicks his school bag to the ground. “I hate school!”

Harry takes a deep breath and ignores the pressure behind his eyes. If he and Teddy are not out of the house in five minutes, Teddy is going to get a late slip for the second time this month. 

“I know you don’t like it,” Harry says, as calm as he can, dropping his breakfast sandwich on the plate. Dusting the crumbs off by clapping his hands together, he walks towards his godson, careful to duck any unexpected neon projectiles. Teddy’s aim is getting better. He puts a hand over Teddy’s, interrupting him from pulling off another boot to throw at his head. “But I promise you’ll have a better time fitting in at Hogwarts if you know how to make friends already.”

Teddy looks at Harry, lower lip trembling. Tears have run down his cheek, and Harry ignores the traitorous twitch in his heart which tells him to bundle the boy up and keep him in his arms forever. 

“I don’t wanna,” he says vehemently, and Harry sighs helplessly, irritation seeping in. Widening his eyes, Teddy says, “If you make me go, I will - “

“You’ll do what?” Harry asks, gripping Teddy’s arm tighter and lowering his voice. 

As if he had learnt the value of actions over words, Teddy bites Harry’s hand. Hard. 

“ _ Fu-  _ TEDDY! Come back here!” Harry roars as Teddy runs out of the room. The bite stings, and Harry immediately sucks on his closed fist to soothe it. 

His temper rises, and outside the living room, he can hear Teddy sliding down the banister with a squeal. The bell hanging above the fireplace rings, and Harry curses again. 

“Kreacher!” he yells and is rewarded by an instantaneous pop. He fixes the elf with a serious look. “Find Teddy and bring him here, we are late for school. I have a Floo call.”

Kreacher bows low and disappears and Harry quickly lifts the crates with his wand to see Terry Boot’s head in the green flames. 

“Hiya, Harry, we have a problem,” Terry says seriously. Harry drops on the floor in exhaustion. Terry doesn’t even blink as he continues, “Padma thinks over half of the powdered silver we received from Knox is powdered silver amalgam - with a significantly higher percentage of mercury than silver.”

Harry’s eyes grow large. 

“Can you get more powdered silver?” 

“Not right now,” Terry says, voice breaking with frustration. “I already spoke to my supplier, he needs three days to import such a huge volume from Serbia.”

“Fuck,” Harry says, running a desperate hand through his hair. “What do we do now?”

“You need to talk to someone and pull some strings,” Terry says, and his face disappears for a second. In the background, he hears Padma talking at break-neck speed, and when Terry’s face reappears, it is somehow grimmer than before. “The three vials of Acromantula ichor we got are also fake. It’s apparently from a jumping spider in Niger.” 

Harry blows air through his nose in an attempt to deflate. 

“Where would we get Acromantula ichor right now?”

Terry takes a second to think.

“We need to convince someone who already has powdered silver in stock to lend us some. That narrows it down to frequent brewers of NEWT level potions who use it as an active ingredient,” he says, like he’s trying too hard to get the words out casually. “In an ideal scenario, the same person would also have easy access to Acromantulas.” 

He can hear Kreacher’s heavy steps and Teddy’s screams, accompanied by Snuffles’ irate barks as the three of them make their way upstairs from the garden. Harry’s stomach drops when he realises who Terry means. A different sort of anxiety settles in his bones. 

“Terry,” he says. “I haven’t been to Hogwarts since the funerals.”

“I know,” Terry says, sympathetic. “He’s our best bet, Harry, and he’s always adored you.”

Kreacher’s gleeful voice interrupts them. 

“Nabbed them, Master,” he crows on entering the room, and Terry curiously looks at the source of the commotion. 

Kreacher drags Teddy and Snuffles by their respective collars, and braves their kicks like a trooper. Terry snorts. 

“If you need any incentive, this is it. Ted’s getting unbearable the closer we are to the full moon, isn’t he?” he says, staring meaningfully at Harry who nods after a quick glance at his worked up godson. “Then you know he can’t miss his dosage.” 

Teddy tries to bite Kreacher, but the elf tightens his hold on Teddy and scoffs at the boy’s attempts. Even though Harry is prepared for the wildness in his godson’s behaviours every month as the full moon approaches, it still feels like a punch to his gut as his normally sweet-natured and mischievous boy becomes ferocious and cruel. 

“Fine,” he says, resigned. “I’ll meet him today.”

“Thanks,” Terry replies, relieved. His floating head disappears long before his parting words, “Speak soon!” 

Harry spends an unnecessarily long second staring at the now-empty fireplace, ignoring the sounds of a three-way fight behind him. Wordlessly, he whips out his wand to lock the door before standing up. 

He nods at Kreacher who looks relieved as he disappears, leaving the miscreants behind. Dog and boy cling to each other and shoot him similar wounded looks. 

“You’re going to school today and that’s final,” he says flatly. 

Teddy’s eyes water and he scowls mutinously at Harry. 

“I hate you,” the boy says with surprising venom for someone who had started his morning with a cuddle session from Harry. “You are the worst godfather ever.”

Even three months ago, such a proclamation would have brought Harry to his knees. Now, he shrugs it off. 

“Thanks,” he says, and directs the rainboot on the floor towards Teddy with his wand. “Wear your wellies, we’re going now.”

Teddy glowers but does as he is told, leaving Harry to check his watch. If they can be out the door within the next one minute and twenty seconds, he is pretty sure he can charm the teacher into not giving Teddy a slip. 

Feeling a little generous, he says, “If you can fetch your bag in under a minute, I’ll leave Snuffles behind in your school park for the day.” 

Teddy’s eyes widen and Harry decides to sweeten the deal. “You’re good at hiding, aren’t you, boy?”

Snuffles gives a little bark and trots towards Harry as if confirming that he  _ is  _ good at staying hidden. Teddy’s out of the room before Harry can pat the dog on his head.

****

Pansy doesn’t panic when she wakes up on the floor of her sitting room because she’s dreamed of yesterday’s events all night, floating between awakeness and a shallow sleep after she had to leave her bed after waking up to Margaret roaring beside her ear.

She rolls her neck from side to side and inwardly curses Margaret for being such a loud snorer. Pansy is not someone who’s easily bothered by noise -she’s a Londoner- but she has her limits. 

She tells her limbs to move so she can at least sleep on the couch-

She does panic when her eyes fall on her watch, though. She doesn’t allow herself to start laughing hysterically, for the fear of not being able to stop. 

_ It’s broken _ , she assures herself firmly. When it doesn’t cooperate, she thinks harder. 

She bangs her head on the floor when a minute passes by and it remains ten am. 

Pushing herself up with her shaky arms, she walks out without throwing herself on the couch with remarkable restraint and drags herself to her bedroom.

She goes through the same dilemma there too when she sees Margaret sleeping with her limbs outstretched, inhaling from her mouth with a rumble before she exhales it like a bursting balloon. 

She grabs the first clean smelling clothes to put on and gets the hell out of her room, running to the bathroom as she sheds the yesterday’s clothes on her way, sniffing her armpit to check if she can pass with not showering 

Not showering is not an option, she decides. She can only hope that she hadn’t been spreading this smell yesterday. 

Somehow, she manages to dress up in record time. When she’s about to step out -cats watching her warily from their usual spots- she writes a note on the post-it she keeps in her bag to feed the cats and grabs Margaret’s umbrella drying by the shoe rack.

It’s a payback for the lipsticks she never got back. 

By the time she reaches Potter’s house, she’s out of breath, but remarkably proud that she just didn’t collapse halfway during the journey. It’s been ages since she had run like that. At Hogwarts, she had often risen stupidly early to take a lap around the Quidditch Pitch when Draco had joined the House team in their second year. It had become their thing, to start the day together before they had to go and keep up the appearances.

Pansy adjusts her hair and muses as she knocks on the door that it’s why Draco casually tossing her away like she was a stranger had affected her so much. 

Kreacher opens the door and gives a perfunctory bow. If he notices that her armpits are sweaty and her cheeks have more colour in them than usual, he doesn’t comment. 

“Miss Parkinson be late,” he says and steps aside so she can enter. The hallway is dark and even if the house elf is gracious enough to divest her of the umbrella, he’s displeased.

If the House Elf is upset Potter is probably going to be unbearable. 

He must be sitting in his study cackling madly and writing down all the ways she’d already proven to be everything he thought she was, that prick. 

“Is Mr Potter angry at me?” she asks before she loses her chance to bolt out of the door. 

Kreacher pauses. He blinks his large eyes, his ears flicking. 

“Master be going to Hogwarts,” he says. “Miss Parkinson not be knowing?”

Pansy has a hard time keeping herself upright in her relief and she can’t do anything other than to shake her head. 

“Master be Apparating to Hogsmeade after dropping Young Master and-“ Kreacher’s thin lips turn up, revealing his fallen teeth and his nose twitches like he’s smelling rotten potatoes “-the  _ mongrel  _ at school.”

She privately agrees with Kreacher over sharing a house with a dog no matter how well-behaved, - she’s a cat person, after all - but keeps her face impassive.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Kreacher doesn’t know, Miss,” he says, inclining his head. “Kreacher be waiting for Miss Parkinson so he can go to take care of Mistress Andy.”

Pansy sucks in a breath. She doesn’t want to left alone with Potter. 

“Something’s wrong with Andy?” 

“Mistress Andy be managing a doxy infestation,” Kreacher replies, standing before the door leading to the basement kitchen. “Kreaches does not know when he will be back, will Miss Parkinson be alright?”

Pansy bites down on her bottom lip to stop herself from squealing in joy. With Potter gone, she’ll have more time to search for gala venues without him breathing down her neck. 

“It depends on if you have thrown out my food stash or not.”

She realises her misstep a little too late after the damage has been done. 

She’s offended the elf. 

“Kreacher always be treating Master’s guests with honour,” he replies in a low voice, and Pansy feels a twinge of guilt. She knows house elves base their entire self worth on their ability to serve, and she had just insulted not only the elf, but also the family he serves. 

_ Stupid Pansy, so out of touch with Pureblood etiquette. What will your mother say? _

“Of course,” she says tightly, and points to the library with a vague motion. “I’m going to catch up on work.”

Like a coward, she flees.

***

An hour later, Pansy’s stomach grumbles, reminding her that she’s not had breakfast yet. 

Since her arrival, she’s made a map of her own with the venues she didn’t visit yesterday, and pocketed Zhivko’s letter. She doesn’t trust this house or the portraits that are most certainly spying on her for Potter. Neatly folding her map, she makes her way to the kitchen, already imagining the crisps and the egg sandwich she’s left behind next to her coke tins. 

Kreacher is absent, and Pansy’s humming a lullaby her mother used to sing to her as a child. 

She wishes she knew what the words meant. She regrets never asking her mother. 

Potter’s kitchen has an old-fashioned freezer room laced with everlasting cooling charms to keep the produce and the meat fresh. She doesn’t know if it’s Potter’s magic or the house’s but it’s impressive either way. She opens the door, expecting to be greeted with a gust of cold air. Instead, she gets a faceful of fizz. 

Pansy shuts the door with a slam, eyes wide, as coke drips down her face. 

She doesn’t claim to be the most delicate person in the country, even in this goddamn house but there are some things even she wouldn’t do because, manners. 

No one should steal someone else’s coke.

With the intention of confronting the thief, she opens the door again. 

“Excuse me,” she says, shutting her eyes lest there be another surprise explosion. Before she can get another word out, a chuckle stops her. She opens her eyes tentatively, only to meet the brown, smiley eyes. 

  
She takes a step back to let more light in, and nearly collapses in shock when her gaze falls upon a heart-shaped boy with turquoise hair, sipping from  _ her  _ can of coke. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh we’ve been waiting for soooo long for pansy and teddy to meet that this feels like a miracle to us. hope u liked this chapter xx


	9. The Room with the Muggle posters

“You-“ Pansy starts, shutting her stinging eyes. The boy’s face swims behind her closed eyelids; Nymphadora Tonks’ heart shaped face, Andy's smile and something that prickles her skin. 

Most certainly Potter’s influence on the poor kid.

She closes her mouth to not to degrade herself into getting in a screaming match with a kid that barely comes up to her chest. 

“What are you doing with that?” she demands when the boys sips unapologetically once more.

The boy cocks his head to the side, his hair turning an ugly shade of green as if that’s what he sees when he stares at Pansy. 

“It’s a coke,” the boy answers, his nose turning up in the air. It’s Andy’s nose, a Black family trait; long, distinctive and haughty. 

Pansy holds back a snort and wipes her nose on the back of her hand, throwing her limp, sticky hair behind. “It’s _my_ coke,” she sniffs, walking backwards towards the sink without taking her eyes off him.

She taps the handle with her wand, shrieking when it hits her right in her face. On her good days the wand obeys. She hadn’t had a good day with the wand in months. She taps it again with a sudden surge of will to prove herself, this time causing it to turn into a dribble. She squares her shoulders and cups her hand until it fills halfway. 

“You’re not supposed to take other people’s food without permission,” she repeats when the boy gurgles the coke in the back of her throat. “Didn’t Potter teach you that?”

“I didn’t know it was yours,” he shrugs but a blush creeps into his face and Pansy feels guilty at instant. 

“I’ll have to shower again, you know,” she says, jutting her hip out and crossing her arms. She tries not to think about how undignified she looks and scowls at him when he starts to twirl the liquid in his mouth, some dribbling from the corners of his mouth.

He swallows, patting himself on the chest afterwards. “Sorry.”

She huffs, her shoulders slumping. “Whatever. We’ll be fine unless you rat me out.”

Edward Tonks puffs up and slams the coke on the bench. “I don’t rat people out!”

She raises her eyebrows, tapping her fingers against her elbows. There’s a story behind this, she’s sure. “That’s good. No one likes a snitch.”

“Everyone loves snitches,” the boy protests. 

Pansy loses track of what she was going to say as she tries to figure out what he means. 

“That’s not what I meant,” she says when she realises he’s talking about _the_ Snitch. “I guess I should’ve expected Potter’s godson to eat and sleep Quidditch as well.”

“You cannot eat -“

“That’s not what I meant. Merlin,” she breathes out, “your vocabulary is lacking.”

“You speak rubbish,” Edward’s eyes glint with outrage, and he flips his hair falling on his forehead. 

“Rubbish,” she rolls her eyes, “where did you learn that?”

“Why wouldn’t I know that?”

“It’s a Muggle thing,” she shrugs. “They can’t vanish by magic so they collect their-“

“I know what rubbish is,” he interjects, “We collect rubbish from the school yard every Friday.”

“Wow,” she laughs, remembering stealing “I knew wizarding kindergartens were strict but this is on another level.”

“What’re you talking about?” Edward throws his head back in annoyance, “I’m seven.”

As realisation dawns on Pansy she walks towards the boy and makes him sit on a stair with her hands on his shoulders. He resists for a second but gives in when she smiles placatingly. She has to hold back a comment on how he shouldn’t trust strangers and shouldn’t give up so easily when someone manhandles him.

She kneels in front of him and stares into his eyes. “Edward,” she starts, clearing her throat, “I’m going to ask you something.” She waits for his nod. “Is there a chance Potter is sending you to a public Muggle school?”

Edward’s green hair turns black, at shoulder length like hers, and his nose a bit pug like just before her eyes. “He is,” he leans towards her, his eyes growing large and misty. “I hate it so much.”

Pansy, disappointed but not surprised in the slightest, pats him on the knee and gets to her feet. “My friend Margaret says her public school years were hell.” 

“Harry says his school years were horrible too but he still forces me to go,” his bottom lip quivers and he averts his eyes as his voice drops low, “and Grandma says I’m acting like Aunt Narcissa whenever I say this.”

She whistles, “That’s harsh. Andy knows where to strike to make it hurt.”

“That’s because she’s a Slytherin,” he blurts out, looking embarrassed for a second later for his outburst. Pansy wonders if she should let it go or express her feelings on the matter. 

Edward beats him to it. “I know it’s not a bad thing.”

Pansy nods noncommittally. She could answer the boy and placate him, or say nothing and let him dwell on it for at least a night. 

“So I guess you’re not supposed to be here.”

He fiddles with his thumbs, staring at her with her own eyes. She’d never realised her eyes were pretty. 

“Are you going to tell Harry?”

“I don’t know yet,” she admits. 

“He won’t know if you don’t tell him,” he follows her moves with unblinking eyes. 

Tricking Potter is an appealing offer but the last time she gave into the urge like this, she’d gotten her coworker’s ankle broken and had to cover for her for three months.

“We’ll see. Get rid of that coke, will you? I’m going to have a shower.”

The boy _growls_ and the little hairs on Pansy’s arms stand with the sudden chill she gets from the sound. 

She’d forgotten what this boy is. 

_Is it a full moon tonight?_

She turns to the boy, trying to keep her muscles relaxed. She meets his gaze steadily, ignoring his bared teeth. Her heart beats irregularly in her chest, once too strong, once too fickle, making her dizzy. 

She did not feel this way when she learned about Professor Lupin. He always looked like he had full control over himself and it felt ridiculous to think he was losing himself every month to become a deadly creature. But his son, this little boy of seven, doesn't seem to have an ounce of it. 

Mama’s boy. 

“I’ll tell Potter you were here,” she says, her voice flat, “Sit tight and pray I don’t tell him about your attitude problem.”

***

Harry curses himself for what is perhaps the tenth time that morning for forgetting to bring his Invisibility Cloak. 

He’d left in a hurry, only barely remembering to stuff the Marauder’s Map in the front of his jeans as he took an emergency Portkey to Hog’s Head to sneak into the castle. It’s not the best of plans, but Harry’s really banking on the element of surprise to corner his old teacher into parting with an invaluable ingredient for ‘The Moony Project’. 

He pauses by the statue of a headless knight and opens up the Map, aware of the portraits’ gossipping as he sprints, trying his best to avoid any attention to his presence. After a trying fifteen minutes, he reaches the dungeons, and fruitlessly slicks back his hair. If the Map is to be believed, the Potions Master is pottering about in the classroom just beyond the door, possibly humming a drunken song or two as he works. 

Uncharacteristically nervous, he lifts his hand to rap on the door and waits for a response. 

It comes a few minutes later as the door swings open, and Harry finds himself frowning at the jolly face of Horace Slughorn, mouth open mid-whistle. It’s a bit of a contest to find who is more shocked, but Harry breaks first, grimacing a little. 

“Hullo, Professor, good to see you again,” he says, and tightens the belt on his robes. “Do you mind if I come in?”

There’s a split second delay as Slughorn takes him in, eyes wary and curious, before his expression smooths into something resembling joy. It’s enough to convince Harry that the man had not forgotten what happened the last time the two of them crossed paths.

“Goodness, my boy,” he says and pulls the heavy door wide open. “Of course! You should have Owled me earlier and I would have saved you some lotus chips I received from an old student of mine. Truly delectable! I think you would have liked it.”

Harry gives an empty smile as he follows Slughorn inside, absent-mindedly taking in the changes made to the classroom in the years since he dropped out of school. Bookshelves still line the corner of the room, almost sighing from the thick volumes of textbooks stacked over it, and he can swear that the row of newt eyes haven’t been replaced in the past decade. There is more light in the room now, and he sees jars and jars of herbs and writhing plants as he walks by. 

“Sit, sit,” Slughorn says, and Harry gladly sinks into the comfortable plush maroon chair next to a copper cauldron over low heat. Across him, Slughorn settles into an identical chair. 

Harry’s caught him in the middle of brewing, and the cauldron hisses and moans as Harry and Slughorn stare at each other in uncomfortable silence, each taking in the other. 

“Did I interrupt your brewing, sir?” he questions, having had enough of the tense atmosphere, lifting his torso and turning in his chair to get a better look at the potion bubbling inside. It’s a pale orange, but the liquid is losing the colour with each second. “It looks like it’s reacting with the copper walls of the cauldron.”

“You figured it out, didn’t you?” Slughorn says, clapping his hands in delight like an over-excited walrus. “Always knew you were a natural at Potions, even if your final grade was a very low O.”

Harry pretends to agree with that assessment with an embarrassed grin. He has not thought about his school grades in a long time. He has, however, picked up some useful Potion skills at the Auror office. 

“I don’t recognise the potion though, but if I were to guess, I would say it’s a salve - based on how fast it’s turning white.”

“Right again, Mr Potter!” Slughorn crows indulgently. “I’ll award ten points to Gryffindor if this was in the middle of a school year. I hope you will be content with - let me look at my hamper, ah, here it is - these fairy balls instead.”

He holds out a tin of glitter covered chocolate balls filled with rum, and Harry tentatively accepts one, knowing that he’d never let Teddy eat one. Slughorn doesn’t have to worry about setting a good example for a child, so he pops one in his mouth, and the candy fizzes in his mouth, leaving his tongue coated in bright blue glitter. 

Harry follows suit and hides his grimace. As he sucks on the candy, Slughorn continues. 

“A unicorn on the grounds broke her horn, poor thing. She was bleeding when Hagrid found her this morning.” Harry makes an appropriate sound of sympathy. “I didn’t want to report it to the Creatures Department at the Ministry yet, you see, and we both know the Ministry takes unnecessarily long with these things.”

Harry reluctantly joins in on the laughter even if he knows the statement to be true. An incident like a unicorn being injured would result in the Auror office being involved, and Harry’s old department doesn’t exactly have the reputation for acting swiftly. 

“I am making a regenerative salve for the horn to grow back by powdering the broken horn. There have been some interesting developments in the field of regeneration of animal cells, Harry. A Potions Master from the colonies was telling me about some remarkable Muggle advancements in regrowing human organs from a collection of cells! In fact, I should introduce you to him - you will love to hear what he says.” Harry’s panic must have shown on his face because Slughorn chuckles. “Ah, maybe another time, then. One more?”

“No, thank you, sir,” he replies, clearing his throat. The glitter uncomfortably pricks the back of his throat. He waits as Slughorn indulges in another fairy ball - this one in yellow - and asks, “I was wondering if you had heard of Knox Suppliers, Professor, I believe you’ve done business with them in the past.”

Slughorn’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and Harry grips the armrest. 

“Barry Knox? My, Harry, don’t tell me you’re ordering from him. The Potions Masters Guild banned him several years ago for tampering with active ingredients.”

“I was,” he says. “He left us out to dry this month with some of our supplies.”

Slughorn tuts and closes the lid of the box and deposits it in the snack hamper on a troll leg table. 

“Your potions masters should know better,” the man says, with a severity in his tone Harry’s never heard before. It makes the back of his neck heat up. “Are your friends still brewing the Wolfsbane?”

“Terry and Padma, yes, but it was I who negotiated with Knox,” he confesses. Rubbing the back of his neck, he says, “I had some evidence on him, and he had just gotten his supply ban revoked. He was three times cheaper than other suppliers in the market.”

“You blackmailed him,” Slughorn surmises, clasping his hands over his belly. Harry nods. “It seems to have been a reasonable course of action, but Knox must have used your name to regain most of his old, more expensive clients back, and he has the upper hand at present.”

“Yes, and he can afford to lose The Moony Project now,” Harry replies and Slughorn leans back in his chair. Harry lets a little bit of his desperation sneak into his voice. “Professor, the full moon is in eight days from now, and we’re short on powdered silver and acromantula ichor. If you know someone who can help us out -”

“Acromantula ichor?” Slughorn interrupts, curious. “I do not recall ichor being an ingredient of the Wolfsbane potion; Its pH value is too low to neutralize the silver.”

“You’re right, of course,” Harry says smoothly, and wracks his brain to quickly come up with a half-truth. “The Acromantula ichor is for a healing potion we are experimenting with, to treat werewolf wounds and such.”

Slughorn’s face is pensieve.

“I suppose that might work in certain cases, especially where an injury has led to blood loss,” he mutters. “There is, of course, a certain difference with how a werewolf’s body might react to a potion transfusion instead of blood.”

He stands up then, fastening his robes and walking over to stir the potion in the cauldron. When Harry moves to join him, he holds out his hand to stop him. 

“However, any Potions Master would know that it is too expensive in the long run - especially if it needs to be sent out to hundreds of werewolves all over the British Isles.” Slughorn fixes Harry with an incomprehensible look. “Unless it is being made for one individual only.”

Harry shifts in his seat. 

“For someone who is an anomaly of nature.” Slughorn lowers the flames even further with his wand. “It’s happening with your godson, isn’t it?”

“Sir?”

“The effects of the moon...the curse in his blood rising to the surface as the full moon is near?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I would appreciate it if you didn’t speak about my godson that way.”

“Of course, of course,” Slughorn says unconcerned. “Is he antsy? Does he request specific foods around the full moon? Are Boot and Patil studying him?”

Harry’s mouth thins into a line. 

“Teddy is _not_ a specimen, Professor Slughorn,” he says sharply. “I will not allow him to be prodded and dissected like a lab rat.”

Slughorn claps him on the shoulder and lets out a booming laugh that echoes in the cavernous room. 

“Harry, my boy, I see your perspective on the matter has not changed,” he says, still chuckling. “Your godson is unique, the first recorded case of a werewolf procreating. We are all entitled to uncover the mystery, don’t you think?”

Harry’s fingers curl up in a tight fist. 

“I don’t think so,” he says, voice low. “I remember explaining this clearly the last time we met.”

Slughorn freezes momentarily, his face matching the colour of the healing salve he’s brewing. 

It had rained the day they buried Remus and Tonks, a week before the full moon in May, and Teddy had howled in Andy’s arms. A week later, he had bit Kingsley Shacklebolt at the Hogwarts memorial to honour the Fallen Fifty, when the Minister had tried to caress the boy’s cheek.

Despite trying very hard to not let the incident make it to print, that the Minister was being treated for a minor infection of lycanthrosis had appeared in the front page of the Prophet, with a petition for the Ministry to study Teddy and ‘contain’ him. It would have gathered steam, too, if Kingsley hadn’t stepped in and spinned the bandage around his right hand as the result of a curse from Voldemort during the battle. 

Harry and Andy were all ready to forget such an incident had happened if Slughorn hadn’t cornered Harry at a Ministry ball in an isolated room months later and offered his superior skills to “fix” Teddy. In response, Harry had punched a hole through the wall next to the man’s head. 

Slughorn chuckles nervously, no doubt remembering their last encounter. 

“Well, if you feel strongly about this, there is no point in me convincing you,” he acknowledges, and finally extinguishes the fire under the cauldron. He produces a few vials from inside his pocket and holds out a few to Harry. “Would you mind helping me to bottle this as we talk?”

It’s not a request, and Harry complies. He works deftly next to Slughorn, and follows his instructions as closely as he can, and observes him as he demonstrates how to prevent his fingers from being burnt. 

By the time they have bottled up the contents of the cauldron, Harry has calmed down. 

“Would you like the owl addresses of my suppliers, Harry? They should be able to get you the powdered silver in an hour or two if you’ve got the gold,” Slughorn informs as he arranges the vials in a neat row inside a velvet lined briefcase. “I wonder if they will be able to procure the ichor.”

_Here’s where you turn on the charm, champ._

“Actually, Professor,” he begins. “I was hoping that you would be kind enough to give me 12 ml of Acromantula ichor.”

Slughorn chuckles. 

“My dear boy, nothing will give me greater happiness than this, I assure you. My, what an honour it’ll be - to help treat the Boy-Who-Lived’s godson! But you see, Harry,” Slughorn says, closing the briefcase with a snap and turning to face him. “I’m afraid I’ll need a written approval from the Headmistress if I were to loan you a vial.”

“Approval, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, overlooking Harry’s frown. “It’s in the amended charter rules.”

Harry tries not to look too hopeful. 

“Could we go up to see the Headmistress now? I can familiarize her with the situation.”

Slughorn’s smile turns downward in sympathy. 

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible today. Minerva’s with her family this summer, you see. Something about her brother passing away.”

“Right.” Harry blinks. He hadn’t known McGonangall had a brother. “Should we speak to Flitwick, then, sir? He’s the Deputy Headmaster.”

“I apologize,” the man states, patting Harry’s arm. “I would like to play this by the book and wait for Minerva.”

_But I don’t have time,_ Harry wants to scream. _It’s the only way we can keep my godson sane. Why aren’t you listening to me?_

“I understand,” is what he says instead. “I was planning to invite the Headmistress to my charity gala next month, but I understand now that she will be occupied.”

Slughorn’s ears prick up at the mention of festivities.

“A gala?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs. _Merlin, please let this gamble work._ “Say, Professor, you won’t happen to be available, will you? Entwhistle planners are handling it.”

Slughorn’s eyes widen in delight. 

“If Entwhistle is involved, it is sure to be grand!” he comments. Grasping Harry’s forearm, he simps, “I’ll make myself free for you, Harry, anything for my favourite student.”

Harry pretends to be flattered even if it makes his mouth taste like chalk. 

“I’m glad, sir. If you can pass me the Owl address of your supplier, I’ll be glad,” he says and waits as Slughorn begins scribbling on a spare bit of parchment. When he’s done, Harry adds, “If you can also write down Mr McGonagall’s full name, I will take it to the Ministry to find the nearest public Floo. Time is of the essence, you see.”

Slughorn’s quill stills above the parchment, and Harry holds his breath. _Take my bait,_ he implores, _I know you were being difficult as petty revenge._

“Actually, Harry,” Slughorn says, smiling beatifically. Harry very nearly pumps his fist in the air, like he’s caught the Snitch after an arduous match. “I don’t see a reason why we should disturb Minerva with a favour between old friends. She deserves some time off, don’t you think? Poor witch works herself to the ground year after year.”

He presses the parchment to Harry’s waiting hands and disappears into the storage in the back with an ‘I’ll be right back’.

“Thank you!” Harry calls out to Slughorn’s retreating figure and memorizes the address. First, he is going to get Terry and Padma the things they need, and next, he’s going to fire Barry Knox. 

He’s still debating if he can get away with giving Knox a black eye when Slughorn returns with gleaming eyes, holding a large vial with the milky pus-like fluid extracted from an Acromantula. As he pockets it shakes hands with an enthusiastic Slughorn, only one thought remains:

_Parkison was right - I_ really _could have been a Slytherin._

***

Pansy flees upstairs, her pulse beating so frantically in her throat that she’s certain the boy can hear it even with multiple walls between them. She tries to lock the door behind her but the key keeps disappearing just a tiniest bit of second before she can grasp it. 

She gives out a laugh, turning her eyes heavenwards and yells for Kreacher. 

When the elf doesn’t appear she yells again, this time accompanied by a thump on the floor. 

She gives a loud sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose when she remembers he left for Andy’s house. She isn’t a superstitious person. She doesn’t believe a day or a year continues as it starts. She’d had days where it started sunny and warm and ended up with her hugging her knees as she sat alone on a damp, wet stone. She had days where she felt like throwing up her breakfast, only to lose herself in the flow and end up laughing for hours. 

This day will take a turn at some point. She knows. She just needs to wash up and wait for it. 

She gives a sharp nod to herself, tugging at the hair tie. It snaps in half, hitting the thin skin inside her wrist. She hisses, putting her lips on the burning area. 

She closes her eyes. And for a moment, she lets herself believe it’s someone else’s lips on her. Of a mother, or a lover, a friend, a child. 

A second of weakness. 

A confession.

I’m not okay.

A wish. 

I want to be touched. 

She snatches her hand away from her mouth and starts to the door to find a bathroom, before she indulges in more mortifying impulses and wishes for things she won’t be having anytime soon. At least in Britain. 

_Come back home,_ her mum’s words from her last letter echoes in her ears in her voice. _Come to us Pansy. Your father cooks your favourite meals for every dinner hoping it’s the day you’ll come back. It’s so silent without you. I miss your laugh. Besides, I’ve had Madam Grigorova sew you two new dresses. One of them is white and the other is black. You’ll look gorgeous in them but they’re starting to gather dust. I might get another one sewed, this one in red-_

Most of the doors have some kinds of spells on them. She can’t touch the door of Potter’s office because it gives her severe nausea. She can’t even get closer than two meters to Potter’s bedroom or his bathroom. She doesn’t dare get into Andy’s room before she tries all other rooms.

The fourth room she tries has a bathroom and is embarrassing for Potter. She squeals in delight, covering her mouth with her hand to stifle her snickering. She takes in the Gryffindor posters and nude, vintage Muggle models covering the walls, twirling around herself. 

Pansy 1- 0 Potter.

She opens the wardrobe, humming a song Margaret has been obsessed with and frowns. There’s only a few items in there, all unrelated and beaten up. 

She twists to take another look around the room and shakes his head at Potter’s thoughtlessness. Leave it to him to turn the guest room into a storage room.

The only thing she can wear is Potter’s Quidditch uniform. 

No way she’s wearing that. 

She takes the wand out and turns it towards herself before she chickens out and takes her top off before she performs any magic. After a deep breath, she mumbles _Scourgify,_ but instead of cleaning the fabric, the wand shoots a splash of water on them, making it even more impossible to keep wearing them.

Meekly she turns back to the wardrobe and holds the shirt in the air with the tip of her fingertips, giving it a suspicious sniff to see if it’s clean accepting that she’ll have to put it on. Her trousers have few stains on them but they’re almost invisible, and will dry before she showers. 

She checks the bathroom to make sure there are towels and shampoo. She closes the door behind her but it opens wide again after a second with a loud creak. She slams the bathroom door in annoyance, thinking the lock must be acting up but it swings open just as forcibly, almost dislocating her shoulder. 

_Pervert_.

She huffs and drops the last of her clothes and steps into the cubicle, her shoulders relaxing a bit when the curtains close all the way. She rotates the shower handle and turns it to the highest heat, letting it pour over her. She doesn’t move even when it scorches. 

Her vision is blurry and she’s lightheaded when she steps out the shower. She stares at the foggy mirror, the unwelcome chattering of it not reaching her ears. Her hand reaches up to the mirror before she notices what she’s doing and she yanks her arms back hastily.

She wants to see herself in this house, to see if she fits. But she’d been scared to do it when she had her best clothes on and with immaculate makeup. She doesn’t dare look at herself when she has nothing to hide her.

She’s _terrified_ Potter will somehow know she looked at herself. So she grabs her underwear and the towels, wraps her hair and body, leaving the room without another glance. 

Pansy throws herself on the bed, trying to decide between staying in her underwear beneath her coat or wearing Potter’s Quidditch shirt.

_That’s why a girl always should wear her best underwear_ , she thinks as she wrings the shirt in her hands. _Even when you think no one will see you in them, you never know what life will throw at you._

She will not be caught in a bra that was once white but now is a shade of gray, by Potter of all people. 

She manages to put the shirt on with Potter’s name at the back like a stamp and it only takes her three minutes and seven attempts to leave the room-

“What are you wearing, girl?” 

She turns around and gives a slight bow to the old portrait. She tries to read the name but it merely says _Mrs. Black._

“I lost a bet Mrs Black,” she grimaces, “I’m paying my debts.”

The woman sniffs derisively, and examines her from head to toe. “Young Purebloods these days,” she starts, stopping to sigh dramatically, “you’re allowing those filthy Muggles and mudbloods to infiltrate our culture with their ridiculous ways.”

Pansy considers reminding her it was a bet that caused Slytherin to be left in the dungeons but she refrains only because she needs to deal with Potter’s kid. “You’re right, Madam,” she bows her head down, “I will behave appropriately from now on.”

The woman makes a dismissive motion with her and Pansy takes that as her chance to get away from there and jogs down to find Edward Lupin. 

The kitchen is empty and clean when she enters and she makes a mental note to give the kid a new coke as a present for cleaning after himself. She gives the freezer room’s door a nudge but it doesn’t move. She frowns, thoroughly confused as she was able to get into there many times since she’s been there. 

She calls for Kreacher but she loses hope that he will show up after a few minutes. He’s probably gone to Andy’s house to assist with the infestation.

“Edward!” she screams after she’s half confident the two of them are alone in the house, barging into the living room, leaving the door wide open behind her when she finds the room empty, running to the next door. She opens every door, and searches every crevice, opens every cover, crawls on the floor to look under the sofas that are too narrow even for a cat. 

“I’m going to put your dog’s collar on you and lock you in Potter’s room when I find you,” she mutters to herself when she hits the back of her head on a silver lamppost while she’d been trying to unstuck herself from the floor. She pushes herself up, rubbing the tender spot with one hand and swatting at her clothes to get rid of the dust and food crumbs with the other. 

Her stiff knees give out when she turns around to go search the rooms once more. She barely keeps from crumbling to the floor by leaning back to the lamppost, her fingers circling the cold metal like a lifeline.

Potter on the other hand, is completely relaxed as he leans back on the doorframe, his arms crossed across his chest as he takes in her appearance from head to toe slower and more intent than she feels comfortable with.

“What are you wearing Parkinson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's almost been a month. We were both quite swept up by our real life duties so we decided to take some time off from writing. Hope this chapter was worth the wait!


	10. Finding Teddy

For the first time in several days, Harry feels truly, incandescently content. 

He’d gone straight to Terry and Padma with the vial of Acromantula ichor and the contact from Slughorn. Padma had swept a delighted kiss on his cheek after her business partner negotiated a deal using a Floo call. It had felt like the centaur hoof on his chest was finally lifted, and he had even let the pair of them coerce him into a little celebratory cocktail.

As he Apparates to the front door of his house pleasantly buzzed, he realises that he now has pretty much the rest of the day to look forward to.

He undoes his trainers, - Padma had spilt half a glass on his shoes when she refilled - leans against the door frame, and slips his feet into a pair of fuzzy slippers when he hears muffled steps and a voice yelling for someone he can’t make out. Instantly, he crosses his arms over his chest, adjusting the arm holster hidden under the right sleeve of his robe. If it’s an intruder, this posture would let him have his wand out in an instant. 

The footsteps become closer, and he thinks the voice is distinctly female and deliberately adopts a casual stance. His fingers brush against the base of his holster when the speaker reveals herself. 

It’s Parkinson. 

Wearing a Quidditch shirt over some too long jeans that sweep the carpeted floor as she walks. 

It’s not like it’s an ordinary Quidditch uniform either. Sometime after Harry had moved into Grimmauld in the months following the Battle of Hogwarts, McGonagall had given him the captain’s Gryffindor Quidditch uniform worn by his father every game between the 1975 - 1977 seasons. She had found it hanging in the trophy room, enclosed inside a glass case behind rows of archival tapes of the Quidditch commentary. For three weeks straight he had worn it every day to bed, swearing to Ron that he could smell his dad. 

Hermione had gently convinced him to not wear it again lest Kreacher ruined it with the frequent laundry, so he reluctantly squashed it in the shrine he had built for his parents in Sirius’ old room. On nights when he couldn’t sleep, he had reverently touched his father’s signature under the griffin emblazoned across the chest, imagining his seventeen-year-old father scribbling his name with flourish after winning the Quidditch Cup his final year, sweat dripping down his face as his mates cheered his name.

She comes into the light, and Harry swallows at the sight of her. 

James Potter had wider shoulders than Harry, and was a few inches taller, and the outfit dwarfs her. She has rolled up the pants several times, but it’s not enough because she nearly trips over them at the end of the stairs muttering something furiously. 

The shirt is like a blanket wrapped around her small frame, and she’s barefoot. He’s never seen her like this - hair messy and tied up in a ponytail that doesn’t quite succeed in keeping the dark strands out of her face. She’s not wearing any makeup, he guesses, and the only colour on her face is possibly due to the exertion it must have taken to climb down the steep stairs. 

She looks strangely vulnerable, and suddenly, it feels like someone has twisted a knife into Harry’s gut. She can wear the fuck out of that uniform. 

She spots him and stays rooted to her spot, toes digging into the carpet, and eyes widening like she’s got something to hide from him and he’s appeared out of thin air before she can find the perfect hideout. 

“What are you wearing Parkinson?”

She turns her nose up in the air at his question. 

“An inkwell accidentally exploded in my face,” she sniffs. 

Harry raises his eyebrows.

“And?”

“This was the only decent thing I could find in your house, so I took it,” she says nonchalantly, then narrows her eyes at him. “The question is, what are _you_ wearing?”

It takes a second for Harry to follow her gaze and find that it’s aimed at his feet, which are ensconced in a pair of the fuzziest, most neon, furry-like slippers on the planet. The googly eyes pasted on the top rattle in indignation at the mocking in Parkinson’s voice. Victoire had apparently insisted her parents buy it for Uncle Harry when they vacationed at the Paris wizarding district. 

Harry’s neck burns. 

“Never seen slippers before?” he taunts. Unconsciously, she crosses her arms against her chest to mirror his posture. 

“Nothing as obnoxious as this, I can assure you,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “Even still, it’s not as obnoxious as you, so I’ll allow it.”

“You’ll allow it,” he repeats, deadpan. “May I remind you this is my house?”

She rolls her eyes at that, even going as far as to tilt her neck backwards, and mutters, “Not like it would suddenly become mine if you stopped reminding me a dozen times every damn day.”

Harry grits his teeth, suddenly filled with a desire to cross the gap between them and give her shoulders a nice shake for her insolence. He doesn’t get to act on his instincts, though, because she opens her mouth and asks: “Where were you this morning?”

“Maybe you would know if you were on time to work,” he quips back, with no little sarcasm. She colours at the statement, and the knife in his stomach twists deeper. 

“I cannot be omnipresent, Mr Potter,” she informs him. “I came in, checked your schedule, and couldn’t find any meetings. I would have come in earlier if you had an important meeting.”

He scowls. 

“If you had come in earlier, you would have known I had an important meeting.”

She pinches the bridge of her nose like he’s being wilfully bothersome.

“It doesn’t specify in my contract that I need to be here every morning at -”

“I don’t care about what’s in the contract, it’s the principle of the thing. And -”

“I’m sorry, the  _ principle  _ of the thing? You really want to go there?”

Harry takes a deep breath.

“What are you doing downstairs?”

She looks a little taken aback by the sudden question. “What?”

“I get that there was this whole thing about ink and quills, but why are you downstairs?”

She gives him a shifty look, eyes crossing together for a second, and hugs her body. 

“I’m searching for my lost earring.”

Harry stares at her for a second. “An earring.”

“Hmm,” she nods, and sways a little on her feet as if to comfort herself. “I had it on me before I went to take a shower, but I can’t find it now.”

“You lost one earring?”

“Yes?”

“Where’s the other one?” he says quizzically, and Parkinson’s fingers jump to her right earlobe. 

“I must have left it in the bathroom by the soapdish,” she says, eyes glazing over. 

Harry stares at her.

“There is no soapdish in the bathroom on the fourth floor.”

She doesn’t miss a beat to reply. 

“Of course, considering that there are three other bathrooms in this house, I must have taken a shower at any of them,” she replies flippantly, causing Harry to bite the inside of his cheek in contemplation. 

“But did you take the clothes from Sir - the closet  _ before  _ you went - “

“Merlin, Potter, I get that you were an Auror, but can you stop your interrogation for one damn minute?”

“I’m just checking,” he defends. “You see, there is only one way to access all the shared bathrooms in the house, and that is through the bedrooms or the living room. Considering that Kreacher keeps the unused doors locked, there is no possible way you could have showered anywhere other than the fourth floor bathroom.”

His lips thin. 

“Or you’re lying to me.”

Parkinson’s not looking at him, though. Her eyes widen at something behind him, and Harry doesn’t duck in time, so there is no preparing for the full weight of a fully grown Scottish deerhound jumping on his back. 

Parkinson lets out an inhuman shriek as Harry falls forward, and somehow twists his body to land on his side instead of planting his face on the floor. 

He groans as Snuffles barks in his ear and licks the glasses off his face. 

“ _ What is that thing _ ?” Parkinson yells, already having run up the stairs. 

Harry tries to laugh but he probably has hurt his shoulder, so he lets out a series of coughs and rubs Snuffles. 

“It’s my dog,” he replies in a strained voice. “Easy, boy,  _ woah _ . There, there. Oi, no lying down on me, you lump, geroff. Good boy, good doggie…”

The dog is on his back, accepting the generous belly rubs that Harry gives him. From the corner of his eye, he spots Parkinson’s head peeking out to take in the scene - master and dog on the floor. Snuffles senses the intruder as well, and rolls over to stand up, and cautiously trots up to her. 

“Parkinson, don’t move,” Harry calls out as she looks ready to sprint again. “He’s a hunting dog - he  _ will  _ chase after you if you run.”

“The fuck,” she says through gritted teeth as Snuffles sniffs her. “Why did you have to tell me when your fucking dog is smelling me?”

Harry smirks as he stands up and dusts off the dog’s muddy pawprints on his robes.  _ Wait, muddy?  _

A chills goes down his spine as he watches the dog that’s supposed to be elsewhere growl in approval of his assistant. 

“Snuffles,” he says, grabbing the dog by his collar, and kneeling on the floor before him. “Where’s Teddy?”

***

Pansy doesn’t have much experience with dogs - her mother never wanted pets in their house except owls - but she’s willing to bet her second best purse that Potter’s dog is complaining to him. 

The creature sits on its hind legs, and seems to be letting out a series of low pitched whines at Potter who intently looks into the dog’s face. It’s pathetic and… fascinating. 

_ So he understands dogs? I wonder how much Witch Weekly will pay for this tidbit.  _

She’s pulled out of her thoughts by Potter looking up at her with an expression she can’t place. “What?”

“I asked if you saw Teddy anywhere in the house,” he repeats, eyes glittering up at her. 

“Who’s Teddy?”

“My godson,” he snaps and stands up, pulling at the dog’s collar so it can transfigure into a leash. For a second Pansy is genuinely worried he’s going to punish the dog and braces herself to let out a scream high enough to pierce something in Potter’s ear to divert his attention. But he snaps his fingers to get her attention and faces his palm downwards and draws an imaginary line to his ribs. “He’s about this tall and can change the colour of his hair.”

_ Yes, I talked to him, and then I lost him.  _

“How would I have seen him?” she says, deliberately avoiding his gaze and rolling her eyes. 

“Because you were roaming around the house searching for your earring,” he grumbles, tapping his foot on the floor. He gives a warning tug on the dog’s collar when it tries to yank him away. His biceps bulge in his tight shirt for a moment as he divests himself of his robes and carelessly throws it on the floor where the garment self irons and flies to the coat stand . “Did you hear anything? A giggle, maybe, or footsteps?”

“No,” she fixes her eyes away from Potter’s arms, letting some of the frustration leak into her voice and masking it for sincerity. “Is he supposed to be here?”

“No,” he says and runs a hand across his face. “I dropped him off at school and left Snuffles in charge.”

Pansy gives her a few extra moments to make sure she heard right. 

“You let a  _ dog  _ watch over your godson?!”

“Snuffles is not like normal dogs,” he insists, looking down at the dog who is busy trying to lick his own balls. “He’s a smart dog.”

She lets her expression do the talking. “If there’s nothing else - can I get back to my work, Mr Potter?”

“Right,” Potter says. “I’ll start with the house first, and then check with his school. Snuffles - you’re going to help me.”

The dog looks to be nodding his head 

His face looks to be the very picture of heartbreak as he stands there, looking lost, and something in her melts a little. Maybe it’s guilt on having lost the boy, or the  _ tiny _ fear that she might lose her job if Edward ever decides to rat her out, but she feels somehow responsible. 

She clears her throat. Potters looks at her.

“My mother always said a two-eyed skrewt is better than a one-eyed one.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Do you want me to help you look for your godson?”

*** 

Harry stands in the middle of the kitchen the third time since morning, and yells hoarsely, “TEDDY!”

It’s futile, and even as he uses the new and improved models of the Extendable Ears (with the ability to listen through  _ Muffliatos _ and thick walls), he hears nary a whisper. He listens even more closely, but it’s only the subdued barks of Snuffles from several floors above, and Parkinson shuffling around something in the living room. 

It’s been close to an hour since he discovered his godson to be missing, and with every passing minute, he is filled with dread as he imagines the different, nightmare-inducing scenarios of Teddy’s disappearance. Already he’s exhausted seventeen options ranging from kidnapping to the boy running off and joining a secret ninja society. 

Snuffles had found Teddy’s schoolbag by the service stairs leading to the kitchen early on in their search, and that is the last solid lead they have had. He feels haunted, he realises after placing the emotion - out of sorts, like his body is in the kitchen, but his mind is far away. 

He listlessly searches in the kitchen, casting one  _ Homenum Revelio  _ after another, and feeling his stomach lower to his feet as every spell fails to glow in the outline of the boy. 

“Damnit, Ted,” he whispers, climbing up the stairs. “Where are you?”

But Teddy can’t hear him, so Harry makes his way to the dining room where he’s hooked up a Muggle telephone. He’d have to call Teddy’s school, he knows, and have them alert the necessary authorities. 

And Andy. 

Andy, who would die a thousand deaths before letting any harm come to her grandson. Andy, who indulges him with stories about the godfather he had never gotten around to knowing fully. Andy, who fed and bathed Harry when a rogue Death Eater had hit him with a paralysis spell…

_ Fuck,  _ he thinks as he sinks to the floor, telephone receiver in hand, and feeling his heart rate spike up.  _ Please, not now. _

A ringing sounds in his ears, very much like if you blew a Quidditch whistle directly in your ear drum, and his eyes blur. With a shaking hand, he unbuttons the collar button and feels sweat pool at the base of his throat. 

“It’s a panic attack,” Percy had said quietly the first time it happened. 

They were the only two people at the Astronomy Tower, trying to rebuild the school bell that had collapsed, taking with it a huge chunk of Professor Sinistra’s office. Harry had seen the exact spot Dumbledore had stood the last time they saw each other, and had felt the ghost of his reassuring touch on his shoulder. Next thing he knew, Percy was pressing a wet rag to his lips, propping him up on the floor, and face paler than Nearly Headless Nick. 

_ It’s okay,  _ he thinks dimly, like someone was saying on the telly in Aunt Petunia’s living room. He feels bony fingers, colder than the first snow on the tongue, wrapping around his neck, and he bends forward, gasping for breath.  _ It’s going to be okay, just breathe.  _

It’s easier said than done. 

He doesn’t know for how long he sits like that, trying to breathe and stop his body from shaking, but eventually, he thinks of his mother. His mother in the clearing of the Forbidden Forest, long hair shining even when she was non-corporeal. His mother beaming at him.  _ You’ve been so brave.  _

Even the very thought of her centers him. He takes a large gulp of air, and feels his shoulders relax as his lungs fill up. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. He blinks the world into focus and feels the plastic in his hand. Distantly, he hears the faint barks of Snuffles. Experimentally, he stands up, and holds on to the mounted telephone as his knees steady.

His dog comes bounding into the room and barks up at him in excitement, running in circles as he pants. 

“What is it?” Harry commands and replaces the receiver. “What’s happened?”

Snuffles tugs on a wire escaping his pant pocket in response and Harry hurriedly pulls out his Extendable Ear. Parkinson’s voice is crystal clear.

“Potter - he’s in the broom cupboard next to your bedroom. Come quick.”

***

As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Potter appears in front of her with his hair wilder than she’s ever seen it, - Quidditch matches included - and sticking to his forehead with sweat. She wants to make a nasty comment about it but she drops it when she sees the hope and desperation written all over his features. 

She gestures towards the bed, where the boy’s orange hair peaks out from something like an invisibility blanket. 

“That’s it Ted, you’re done,” Potter growls with his veins on his forehead and neck sticking out dangerously, and he steps towards the boy with the same manner he had in their third year during Care of Magical Creatures class. 

That time, Pansy had the urge to step between Draco and Potter as well but Millicent stopped her. Now, she manages to cut into his way and stop him with her hands on his chest, which is quite sturdy and warm underneath her palms-

“Get out of my way,” Potter says slowly, his hands balled into fist next to his hips and his chest muscles twitching-

“Let him sleep first,” she whispers, “he’ll feel much worse when he wakes up late and finds you waiting for dinner.”

Potter’s brows knit together, his posture relaxing, and he rolls his neck from side to side. Pansy can feel that he’s calmed down a fair bit and she can take her hands off him but he still hasn’t pushed her away and her hands have been cold for some time in this house, the stingy man he is.

“Are you sure?”

She nods, patting him once before she reluctantly releases him, grabbing one of her wrists with the other behind her back. She hesitates for a moment, rolling on the balls of her feet before she lets the words out. “It was my dad’s favourite tactic. Waiting until I brought the topic up.”

Potter’s face clears, staring down at her with a blank expression. “Did that work?” 

Pansy shrugs, jutting her chin towards the door, waiting for him to get a move on. “Almost every single time.”

“Does that mean-“

“Harry!” Andy’s voice echoes around the stairs, waking several portraits. Pansy wonders if these elders actually had decent hearing when they were alive, being wizards. If so, her grandmother did actually ignore whatever she wanted to ignore. 

Potter stops her with a hand on her forearm when he starts to the landing, making her heart lurch in her chest. 

_ It’s physical attraction,  _ she tells herself.  _ Only because he’s your type.  _

Potter drops her arm like it burns his skin and Pansy is once again slapped by the reality. 

She squares her shoulders and raises one eyebrow, half annoyed and half amused at the constipated look on his face. 

“Can you… not mention this to Andy?”

Pansy bites into her cheek and closes her eyes. 

She can’t let Potter know she’s on the verge of howling with laughter. 

“I must not tell lies,” she shrugs, frowning when Potter visibly winces. “What?”

“How do you know about that?”

“How do I know what?” Pansy snaps, “Do I have to know everything that crosses that bird nest?”

Potter, ignoring Andy who’s insistently calling from downstairs, doesn't cease to glare at her. “I’m asking you who told you that.“

“Told me what?” she pushes him out of her way with her shoulder, smirking for a moment when he grunts in pain. It’s the same shoulder on which he fell down when his overexcited dog jumped on him. She dodges his grip this time, almost falling face first on the stairs to run away from him. 

“Andy,” she shrieks as she barges into the living room, Potter at her heels. She wonders where she is and if grabbing her as a human shield is too rude but Potter devoids her of that option when he grabs her by the waist and covers her mouth with his hand, shutting the door behind them with a kick.

She screams when he lets go.

Potter covers her mouth again, this time with two hands, and Pansy bites down on him with all his power, trying to aim a knee to his groin.

“Calm down Parkinson,” he yells, groaning when Pansy grabs his hair and yanks with all her might. He tries to dislodge her hands, freeing her mouth. “Merlin, calm down, I’m sorry—Just!”

“You bastard!” She hisses, trying to decide whether to bite his ear or one of his fingers off. “I’ll kill you in your sleep and feed you to that monster you call a dog-“

“I only asked you to-“

“I’m gonna leave your remains in front of the fucking Ministry-“

“Look, I’m trying very hard not to hurt you now-“

“I’m going to mail your head to Wizengamot-“

They’re separated with a strong wind, both of them thrown to the opposite corners of the room. Pansy rubs the back of her head before she lifts her eyes to look at Andy, who is watching them as if she’s staring at the Hippogriff shit she’ll have to clean. 

“Why?” she says, fitting so many words into one.

Pansy looks at Potter, who’s silently begging her with his eyes, and fuck him, but he’s got nice eyes. 

“He told me I can’t bring my pets here,” she blurts out, giving him a satisfied grin when he chokes on his own spit. 

Andy sighs, rubbing her temples. “What do you have? A dragon?”

“No,” she coos. “I’ve got two cats and two owls.”

“Why did you tell her she can’t bring them?” Andy asks, blinking furiously with confusion. 

Potter’s lips thin and he sends a scathing glare towards Pansy. “Because…” he clears his throat, “I don’t like cats.” 

Andy turns towards Pansy and tells her flatly, “Bring them to breakfast tomorrow.”

“What?”

“What?”

“You heard me,” she says impatiently, “Maybe they’ll get rid of the mice in the cellar.” The two of them open their mouths at the same time but she holds up a hand before they can protest. Pansy wants to make it clear that her cats and owls only eat the best quality meat but Andy talks over her. “Now, I just dropped by to tell you that the Tonks Cottage is doxy-free and you can drop Teddy after you pick him up from school.”

“No,” Potter shakes his head, no doubt giving himself a whiplash.

“Excuse me?”

It’s obvious that Potter’s never lied on the spot before because he looks like a thestral caught in a flashlight. 

“Umm, he’s sleeping now -  _ no _ , I mean, it’ll be nice if he can sleep over today as well.”

Potter then has the nerve to look at her, causing Andy’s gaze to turn curious. 

“What Mr Potter means is that,” Pansy begins, glaring at Potter and wishing her gaze vaporised him where he stands. “You must be very tired from taking care of the doxies, so you should have some time to yourself to unwind.”

Andy gestures vaguely with her hand. 

“Is that what you meant?”

“Yeah,” Potter says earnestly. 

Andy’s mouth pinches, and her eyes hop between them as if both options are giving her a severe headache, before her lips form into a curious smirk.

“Interesting,” she says and keeps looking at the pair of them. Pansy resists the urge to poke her finger up her nose, just so she can give the older woman something to stare at.

“Fine,” she breathes out in the end. Potter gives a loud sigh and does something with his mouth that looks painful in an attempt to smile. 

“Get the breakfast ready at eight.”

Potter salutes her with a straight face and Andy’s mouth twitch in the corner. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude on your family time,” she interjects, her heart twisting painfully when she realises she’ll have to wake up early again. 

“Nonsense,” Andy waves her hand, ignoring Potter’s hopeful face. “I’ll expect both of you there.”

Two of them deflate at the same time. 

She grimaces before she speaks, “Can I trust the two of you to not fight if I leave now?”

“Yes,” Pansy cuts in, “I’m going to leave now to look for gala locations anyway.”

“Oh,” Andy perks up before eyes roam slowly over her, like she’s realising her outfit now. “I’m not going to ask. But-“

“I’ll step into my house to change my clothes first.”

“Good idea.”

*******

Margaret is still laying down and watching telly when she comes back to her house without any intention to go out and look for a place.

“You look happy,” Margaret comments, not taking her eyes off the screen.

“It was a good day,” Pansy throws herself on the sofa, putting her head on Margaret’s thigh. Rowena jumps on her belly, bumping her head under her chin in greeting before she steps down to curl on Margaret’s lap, her head resting on Pansy’s shoulder. She sees Margaret running her hand over Rowena’s spine, her fingers touching her hair when she scratches the back of her ears. 

“I see you’ve bonded.”

“She’s shameless,” Margaret says, her tone laced with affection. “She’d been attacking my feet all day before you came in.”

“I have this calming effect-“

She hits her on the forehead lightly, causing Pansy to chuckle. 

“Come on,” she whines, “tell me why you’re smiling.”

Pansy mulls over the answer for a while, but decides the truth is the most innocent option. “I just got the upper hand with this war with my boss.”

“Oh? Does he fancy you?” she asks distractedly, tapping her nails on her steaming mug. It smells of jasmine, her favourite herbal tea, but Pansy has been craving for coke since the morning so she doesn’t demand her to brew for her as well.

“No,” she tugs on her sweater, “he’s my boss.”

Margaret snickers into her glass, her attention finally on Pansy instead of a shitty show. “Seduce him.” 

“I might just be the last woman he’d touch.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“Well,” she starts, almost terrified to go on, “I mean, he looked at me today.”

“Okay,” Margaret stretches out the word, her frown deepening. Rowena gives a deafening meow when she stops petting but Margaret, a heartless girl that she is, doesn't give in to her demands. “If you’re really that hungry for attention just go to a bar, Pansy. Put on your lipstick-“ 

She waves her hand in the air in protest. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah?”

She shrugs, earning a hiss and a harsh nibble on her ear for her discomfort from Rowena. “I-I don’t know for sure what I meant but that’s not it.”

Margaret keeps silent. 

“He has a gorgeous girlfriend,” she tries, getting frustrated at herself when Margaret looks even more confused. “Look, what I mean is, he’s taken and he can’t stand to breathe in the same room as me. But he still couldn’t help but look at me.”

“Okay, but still, that happens to you all the time, doesn’t it?”

“Never with him.”

Pansy turns to her in suspicion when she doesn’t say anything. She narrows her eyes at the small smile on her face. “What?”

“You fancy him.”

“I fancy his body,” she corrects her. “And maybe his face.”

“Is that why you’re wearing his shirt?”

It’s like a fresh bucket of iced water over her head. Her fingers twitch on her sides not to cover the front with her hands and she keeps still not to arouse any suspicion. She doesn’t think Margaret will wonder about the shirt but she still wants to hit herself over the head repeatedly for her thoughtlessness. 

“I ruined my shirt there,” she explains, her voice coming out steady. “I should go get changed.”

“When are you giving it back?”

“Tomorrow morning at-“

She stops herself at the self satisfied smile on her face. 

“Not because,” she starts but lets out a loud sigh and pushes herself up. “It’s not what you think but I’m not going to try to explain myself,” she declares.

All she gets is a ‘shhh’ as her friend’s attention is already back on telly. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaahh what a roller coaster of a chapter! did u guys like it? if you had to hide somewhere where no one can find you - where would you hide?


	11. Chapter 11

Harry is nibbling on a licorice wand when Teddy stirs. 

It’s nearly time for his lunch, so Harry isn’t surprised when both of Teddy’s eyes blearily open. It’s always a bit cute, watching his godson wake up from a nap, but it’s decidedly  _ not _ this time. 

Teddy’s brown eyes open as wide as saucers when he spots Harry sitting on a chair beside the bed, and then promptly shut tight. Barely a second later, snores that are too evenly spaced out to be real fill the room and Harry has to bite down on the candy to stop the unexpected laugh threatening to burst out of him. 

“I know you’re awake, Ted,” he says as sternly as he can, and reaches forward to pull down the blanket he had covered the boy in earlier. 

Teddy always sleeps better with a blanket over him, and tiny fingers brush against his as Teddy tries to pull the ends of the fabric back over himself. He probably thought he was being inconspicuous or whatever, but Harry holds firm. 

“Not gonna happen,” he says, and pulls out his real wand to banish the blanket back into the linen cupboard two floors down. He pockets his wand, crosses his arms over his chest and leans back in his chair, and counts backwards from a hundred. 

He’s been here before, having woken up the boy in this manner countless times before, and like clockwork, by the time he reaches twenty seven, Teddy stirs again. This time, he opens both his eyes and stares at the ceiling. Harry blows out a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding. 

“Good nap?” he asks, and receives a rigid nod in return. The nerves and the anger from several hours ago return to him slowly, and Harry breaks his licorice wand in half and offers one to Teddy. “Want one?”

Teddy stares at the peace offering from the corner of his eye, tucks his neck into the collar of his uniform, and mumbles something incomprehensible. 

“Pardon?”

“I said no,” the boy replies in a louder voice, but doesn’t look at Harry. 

“Well, more for me, I suppose,” Harry muses out loud and pops in both the pieces into his mouth, not caring that the jagged ends stick out of his mouth like the tusks of an elephant. It takes a while for the air in the room to turn into something uncomfortable, and by the time Harry gets thoroughly sick of the taste of star anise coating every inch of his mouth, Teddy’s face has pinched into a cross between apprehension and anger. 

It reminds Harry so much of Tonks for a moment that he has to look away from her son and toss the half eaten candy into the trash behind the closed bedroom door to collect himself.

He clears his throat and says, “I talked to Miss Patterson today. She was really worried about you.”

Teddy doesn’t reply, but at least his little shoulders relax a little on hearing he wasn’t in trouble at school. At least. 

“I told her you were sick, by the way. She was going to call up your grandmother and ask after you if she hadn’t heard anything by noon.”

Teddy shoots up from his position at that, and looks at Harry with horror on his face. The tips of his hair are a moldy green belying his true feelings on such a scenario for anyone to see. 

“Yes,” Harry says. “Andy would have sent you back to school the moment she found out where you were. In fact,  _ I  _ came very close to doing the same thing to you!” 

He takes a deep breath and tries not to yell. 

“Do you have any idea what you put me through? Haven’t I told you that you shouldn’t be using my Invisibility Cloak unless I tell you to use it?” He pinches the bridge of his nose in a futile effort to calm down and not scare Teddy. “What if you had hurt yourself? Worse - what if something had happened to you and I wasn’t able to get to you on time? _ Merlin, what if you had been hit by a car when coming back home?! _ ”

He’s towering over Teddy now, somehow having stood up over the course of his rant. His fingers shake with anger and disappointment, and even Teddy’s tear filled eyes cannot calm him down. 

“Your grandmother would have skinned me alive! Not to mention the fact that if we  _ lost _ you, we wouldn’t be able to -“ 

“IT’S ALL BECAUSE OF YOU!”

Harry stumbles back into the chair, flabbergasted. Teddy is crying, and his hands are outstretched before him. 

“I told you I didn’t want to go to school,” Teddy sobs. “You never listen to me. I HATE SCHOOL! I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT IT!” 

Harry’s chest throbs a little, and he theorises that Teddy must have pushed him back. Around the time of the full moon, Teddy had always been unnaturally strong, and it’s sheer luck that Harry hadn’t fallen to the ground and broken his neck on impact. Instantly, Harry switches his stance towards the crying boy into something gentler. 

“Hey, it’s okay, shh,” he whispers, and so as to not startle Teddy, he grabs his hands, and envelopes the smaller hand in his. Andy had once told him that no matter how much he liked to consider himself as the ‘strict’ parent, he’s the one that caves in the second Teddy bursts into tears. Teddy’s young now, but Harry simply decides to not listen to Andy’s voice in his head singing that it won’t be long before his godson sees the pattern and tries to game it to his advantage.

Teddy’s posture slumps, and Harry picks him up into his lap and rocks him. It’s been a while since Teddy has had a breakdown like this, and yes, he feels a bit guilty about pushing Teddy and Andy to choose a Muggle school instead of a Wizarding one. 

“What don’t you like about it?” he prods as he rubs comforting circles on his back. “I know it must be hard to hide your magic before the other kids, but Ted, you’re really good at all your subjects! You always bring home good grades, and you make the best sandcastles!” 

The last compliment tugs a reluctant half-smile from the boy, so Harry presses a kiss to the top of his head. 

“I thought by the end of last year, you were liking the school,” he continues quietly, thinking about how excited Teddy was to be cast as one of the children in the school’s production of  _ Matilda;  _ he had even been invited to a cast after party. “You now hate school enough to actually run  _ away _ from there?”

Teddy is silent for a beat, and amidst his sniffles, Harry strains to piece together his words into a sentence. 

“They call me a freak.”

It’s as if a Dementor has entered the room. 

“What?” Harry whispers, his throat suddenly dry. 

Teddy looks up at him finally, and Harry finds that he’s the one unable to meet his godson’s eyes now as the words echo in his head. Visions of his uncle and aunt fill his mind and Harry visibly shudders to shake them off. 

“Billie saw Mum’s photo in my pencil case some days ago,” Teddy explains. “I guess Billie told his Mum that my Mum had pink hair and tattoos, and Billie’s Mum said only freaks look like that.”

_ Calm down,  _ Harry says to himself in a desperate bid to not just Apparate into Billie’s mother’s house and knock some sense into her head. 

“Everyone calls you that now?” Harry questions. Teddy nods. “Did you tell Miss Patterson about this?”

Teddy shakes his head slowly, and in a miserable voice, says, “She wouldn’t care. She really likes Billie.” 

Harry clenches his jaw and tugs Teddy close to him. He smells faintly like the baby soap Hermione still buys him.

“You’re  _ not _ a freak,” he says with conviction, lifting Teddy’s chin up and looking into his eyes. “And your mother was the coolest person I’ve ever known; You’re cool by association.”

Teddy fidgets a little, and looks up at Harry shyly. 

“I know,” he says. 

“Good,” Harry replies and for good measure, drops another kiss on his head. “I’m going to call Miss Patterson about this, okay? Calling people names is  _ not  _ okay.” 

“But Uncle Ron calls Draco a ponce all the time,” Teddy inquires, wide-eyed. “Will you tell on him to Nana Molly?”

Harry’s ears turn red and he chuckles to avoid the embarrassment. 

“You  _ can  _ call someone names if they deserve it,” he says, crossing his fingers that Teddy doesn’t relay this conversation to his grandmother. “Only sometimes, though, not always.”

“Wicked.”

Teddy’s face splits into a wide grin and Harry thinks one day in the future, he’s going to sincerely regret this moment. 

“So, what are we going to do now?” Teddy asks as Harry ruffles his hair and gently lowers him to the floor. 

“We are going to eat lunch first,” he replies, and grasps Teddy’s hand with the intention of leading him down to the kitchen to cook something for them. “Then, you’re going to tell me the names of everyone who called you a freak so I can report them to Miss Patterson when I drop you off at school tomorrow.”

Teddy freezes and wriggles his grip out of Harry’s hold. 

“You’re still going to send me to school?”

Harry sighs at the look of betrayal on his godson’s face and kneels down before him. 

“School’s important Teddy,” he says, holding his shoulders in spite of the efforts to shrug his hands off. “Classes will help you learn about all sorts of exciting things you can use to solve problems.” 

Teddy scowls. 

“Am I going to use multiplication tables at Hogwarts?” he questions, almost sarcastically. 

“If you take Arithmancy, yes,” Harry replies. Teddy rolls his eyes at his response. 

“I can learn everything from Aunt Hermione’s books,” he says petulantly which is, well, fair. Then, Teddy adopts an expression Snuffles has whenever he really wants an extra piece of bacon, and pleads, “Can’t I just hang around with you until I get my letter?”

Harry’s stomach swoops, and a part of him wants to give in. It’s ridiculous, he repeats in his head. Andy and he had decided it was crucial for Teddy to be kept away from all the celebrity that was associated with both his godfather and his parents for as long as possible. Not to mention that with the Moony Project, Andy was slowly appearing in the papers as much as Harry. 

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, licking his lips. “You can stay home with me for the rest of the week.  _ But  _ \- you have to tell Grandma about the whole name calling business, okay? So we can take care of it at school?” 

Teddy nods vigorously, having whooped at Harry giving him permission to cut school tomorrow, not completely registering that it was only one day of truancy and he preferred to spend the weekend at Grimmauld anyway. 

“If anyone bothers you after that - doesn’t matter how old you get, or where you are - you have to promise me that you’re going to tell me or Grandma. No running away on your own and hiding behind the Invisibility Cloak.”

Teddy’s eyes are bright and clear, and it settles the last of his anxieties.

“Okay, I promise.” Then, a hint of mischief appears and he runs out of the room before Harry can blink. “Race you downstairs!”

He lets out a silent laugh as Teddy’s footsteps reverberates through the bedroom. Still laughing, he stands up and dusts off the rug marks on his knees. It’s when he closes the bedroom door behind him does he acknowledge - grudgingly - that Parkinson’s advice on having a conversation with Teddy after his nap is decent advice. 

Maybe he should thank her when she comes over for breakfast. 

Only if her owls don’t poop on his head.

***

Pansy wakes up at six the next day but is still late because Godric refuses to get into his carrier even though he’s always been a mild mannered cat. 

Pansy knows it’s because he doesn’t want Helga to be alone when she comes back and she’d shed a few tears over that if she had time. Nevertheless, Pansy locks him in his prison with a sigh of victory, pushing a strand of sweaty hair away from her face. She isn’t showered or dressed yet, knowing at least one of them would give her trouble. 

“She’ll find us,” Pansy tells Godric exasperatedly as he tries to unlock the door with his hairy paws. “Trust me, I wish she was here to monitor you as well.”

It's been months since Pansy had an opportunity to dress up, but she doesn’t allow herself to go overboard with her outfit or her makeup. She wears her combat boots and baggy jeans along with a thick sweater that she had worn every single day for two weeks before the N.E.W.T.s.

She feels like she’s preparing for war and a bit ridiculous for letting Potter intimidate her. But the day is more likely to end with her outraged and crying in the rain than any place that’s more suited to a nice dress. 

Outside, it’s unnaturally warm for winter and she starts sweating as she starts to walk towards Grimmauld Place. Her ten minute journey feels much longer with her arms shaking from carrying the cats and snarling at people who gawk atSalazar perched up on her shoulder. 

“You could’ve carried yourself there, you know,” she complains out loud when they reach Grimmauld Place, “Take a weight off my shoulders.”

“You guys better act properly in there,” she whispers with a tight grin as she waves to the gossiping women who scramble away when they notice they’ve been spotted. “We cannot give Potter any leverage.”

“No scratching at the furniture.” She shakes Rowena’s box first. She lowers her voice and holds Godric up to look him in the eyes. “No rutting on anyone’s leg.”

She glances towards Salazar, who turns his head away knowing what’s to come. “Look at me,” she orders. When he doesn’t comply she whistles, making him hoot in indignation. “You’re not allowed to attack the dog or I’ll give your food to Helga and you’ll eat bread for two weeks.” 

Salazar keeps quiet. 

“Am I understood or do I have to send you to Bulgaria now?”

“Is that how you maintain your authority?”

Pansy jumps, letting out a scream as Potter’s head swims in the air without the rest of his body. She takes a few hurried steps back to get away, hitting the back of her ankles against the stairs and losing her balance.

It’s a war, like she predicted.

Potter catches her by the scruff of her coat, his arm appearing out of nowhere. She attempts to bite at his wrist, causing him to let go of her immediately, making her stumble again. 

This time she falls on her butt.

At least Potter catches the cats before they fall to the ground. 

She scrambles to her feet, unable to meet his eyes at the moment. She breathes in and out-

“Parkinson?”

She looks up. Potter seems to be in a good mood, which isn’t surprising since Pansy would’ve been happy too if the first thing she saw was Potter on the floor. 

“You okay?”

“I’m fine. I was just startled.”

“Yeah,” his mouth turns slightly upwards on one side. “I sometimes forget not everyone knows about the Invisibility Cloak.”

“Everyone knows about those,” she corrects him, grabbing the cats back from his hands, “It’s just people think it’s basic manners not to use them when you walk up to someone.”

Potter raises his eyebrows. “Is it good manners to get coffee for our guest?”

“Oh,” she breathes out and blinks because she doesn’t see them. “I’ll give you points for that if you’ve actually gotten them.”

“They’re in my pockets.”

“In your pockets.”

“Hermione. I basically have a Bottomless House inside here.”

Pansy clears her throat, averting her eyes. “That’s a useful invention.”

“Yeah,” Potter grins, no malice, no mocking, no insincerity. “She got tired of me tripping over my own feet whenever I had my hands full.”

“You played Quidditch,” she deadpans. 

“Yeah, but you cannot miss a rock or a step when you’re in the air.”

She tries to give back a smile that at least looks neutral. “Maybe she should help out at her husband’s shop.”

Potter’s smile dims. 

“What?”

“Nothing,” he shuffles his feet. “It’s exactly what Ron said back then.” 

She stares at him before she laughs, incredulous. “My apologies.”

His mouth falls open, clicking it shut when Pansy climbs a stair to stare into his eyes. “Do we go inside?” 

“Wait a second,” he steps into her way, and Pansy extends her back away from him to put some space between them. Potter looks abashed, wetting his lips and scratching at his beard like Pansy makes him as nervous as he makes her. 

She leans her hips on the door, balancing the cages on her knees, sighing loudly to make a point. 

“Thank you.”

She urges him to go on with her eyes. 

“For helping me out yesterday.”

Pansy snickers, hiding her face into her scarf when Potter’s pained expression turns annoyed. 

“Potter, you’re a lot more naive than I gave you credit for if you think that was out of the goodness of my heart.”

***

Potter’s face is still red when they step into the garden, warmer than inside of the house which refuses to warm up properly whenever Andy is there. Her mouth waters at the sight of the table all set with all kinds of food she never bothers to cook. She hopes Edward won’t eat her favourites before she can sit down.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” she nibbles on her lips, crouched next to cats.

“Yes,” he huffs, craning his neck to check where Edward and Andy are, probably uncomfortable with being alone with her after offering his gratitude to her. “We put the spells up for Snuffles. They won’t be able to go out without the owner’s permission after they come in once.”

Salazar hoots. 

“Don’t say ‘owner’ when the owls are around,” she says, patting his feet placatingly.

He looks confused, which makes up about half of his expressions. “Why?” 

“My owls were born as mail owls,” she turns her cheek to Salazar, who rubs his head on her face like a cat. “I kidnapped them. They caught me but Father paid off the owner of the mail service and some journalists. It never made the news and I got to keep them.”

Potter doesn’t reply, but Pansy hadn’t expected him to, Mr. I-Use-Mail-Service. She unlocks the carriers, her heart beating wildly in her chest as they cautiously exit, sniffing at the grass, tails puffed up.

“Let them,” Potter’s voice comes nearer than she realised. Potter rubs a finger over Salazar’s beak, his expression far away. “It’s safe, I promise.”

For the first time since she met him, she’s lost for words.

She finds them when he looks at her. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Potter smiles. No malice, no mocking, no insincerity and Pansy can’t bear to look at him. 

“Good morning,” Andy calls them from the table, a hand on Edward’s shoulder to stop him from taking off. She looks natural in her pink dress, despite how fancy it is.

Jealousy is not cute, she reminds herself, looking down at her own boots. 

“Morning,” she replies, her eyes on the boy who’s eyeing the cats with glee. She glares at Potter, “Is this the first time he’s seeing a cat?”

“Harry doesn’t like cats,” Edward pipes up and three heads turn to him in tandem. 

“I like cats,” Potter squeaks, “I just don’t like the ones who don’t listen to what I say.” 

Pansy throws her head back in laughter. 

“Can I play with them?” Edward asks with his eyes fixed on Rowena. Pansy hesitates, perturbed about the manic glint in the boy’s eyes.

“Depends,” Pansy crosses her arms against her chest, “what’s your idea of playing?”

The boy wrinkles his nose, then takes off after the cats, leaving two of them exasperated and one of them enraged.

“I’ll take them back right now if you chase them,” she calls after him. “That’s not how you introduce yourself to a cat.”

He ignores her and Salazar takes off, trailing behind them. Pansy crosses her arms, glaring down at the boy running after them with slightly alarming pace but still unable to catch them. She keeps an eye on them while Potter and Andy chat behind her without worrying about the boy or the cats.

She scowls.

_ I guess Andy really only cared about the mice problem. _

She motions the boy with her fingers when he looks behind him with desperate eyes and he shuffles his feet back to them. She sighs when he stops defiantly in front of her and says, “They’re predators Edward. They feel threatened.”

“So what? I’ll only pet them.”

She shrugs and discreetly watches as the cats crawl closer to each other to form a pack across the garden. Salazar flies higher, either to have a stroll or hide better somewhere else. 

“How should they know you won't harm them?” she says when Edward whines, “Especially after you gave them a fright?”

The boy sulks, kicking at the ground and leaving a deep dent. “It’s not like I’m going to eat them.”

“They don't know that,” she repeats and throws a glance at the table. “Why don’t you leave some sausages and some plain yogurt for them? They’ll smell your scent and will probably allow you to come closer if you approach them calmly next time.”

The boy thankfully heeds her advice and does as she orders. He probably remembers his own hunger as he carries the food over them, and returns quickly after leaving the food without checking if they're interested. 

The urge to grab the cats and leave surges when Potter and Andy fuss over Teddy’s meal, forgetting Pansy who is still standing a few feet away. She wonders if they'll notice if she takes off.

She walks over the food and crouches, waving the sausages in the air. Rowena lets out a tiny meow and runs towards her, sniffing the meat before she grabs it between her teeth. Godric keeps watching from his spot warily, not intended to leave his relatively safe haven. 

A shadow approaches her, Potter, and he comes too close before she can decide if she should get up to release the ache in her thighs. He stands still behind her for a few moments before he crouches next to her, handing her a cup that warms her fingers at once and she takes a sip-

She barely hides her grimace as the taste of milk overwhelms her taste buds. 

“What?” Potter frowns. “Is it not good?”

“No, no,” she forces a smile, “I’m just… lactose intolerant.”

Potter stares at her, and takes the cup back from her hands.“Is that dangerous? Do we need to take you to hospital?”

A laugh escapes her mouth. “Not at all,” she giggles, covering her mouth. “It’s just a bit uncomfortable if I have milk.”

“Okay,” he says, not looking convinced. “Tell me if you start feeling unwell.”

She nods, without any intention of ever telling him even if she was bleeding to death. 

“Which one is that?” he asks, jerking his chin towards Godric, whose tail was swishing around.

“That’s Godric. The least brave of my animals.”

He huffs out a small laugh. “Was it on purpose?”

“No, it was purely because of his fur.”

“Yeah,” he muses, “I suppose Godric Gryffindor would look like him if he was a cat.”

“He wishes.”

Potter smiles fleetingly at that, not meeting her eyes or looking over her direction. He lays the cups down, snaps his fingers to get Rowena’s attention, then pushes the food over her. She doesn’t come closer, her bright green eyes fixated on him with her ears on the air. “This one? Salazar?”

“Why did you think so?” she muses. 

He shrugs. “Eyes?”

She snorts, “Why haven't you been sorted in Slytherin then?” she asks, grinning at him. Potter opens her mouth like he’s got a reflexive response but he refrains from telling whatever insult he’s got on the tip of his tongue. 

“She’s Rowena,” she says when the silence stretches. 

Potters hums. “Looks a lot like McGonagall.”

“What?”

“You know, her Animagus form?”

“Oh,” she shakes her head. “I’ve only seen that once. But I remember she was a tabby.”

“She is,” Potter confirms and pushes himself to his feet, putting a rather abrupt end to their first lighthearted conversation. He bends down to take the cup back. “Shall we go? And let these guys have their space?”

She follows her back to the table, seeing Edward has already started eating. Potter shares a look with Andy but no one comments or scolds him. 

Potter gives her the cup in front of him, sipping from the cup she drank from and she jolts with surprise. 

“That one is without milk,” he says, averting his gaze. “You can have this.”

“Oh,” she breathes out, “I wouldn’t want to-”

“It’s okay. I’d rather give you the cheap one,” he says, taking another sip pointedly. 

“Deal,” she accepts his sudden playfulness, smiling at Andy who passes her the omelette palate. She realises the tight knot that has been on her belly since the morning has loosened.

She makes a move towards the croissants in front of Potter, her appetite coming back, but he takes one before her. 

“Gotta take the best one too,” he says through his full mouth. 

“Charming. One would think you’re tight for money.”

“Oh he is,” Andy cuts in, “even if there’s a quite easy solution to that.”

“Andy,” Potter mumbles in a low voice, but something in his tone makes Andy take a step back. 

Pansy wants to prod but doesn’t want to ruin their fragile peace.

_ That is built upon the leverage she has over Potter. _

The revelation, somehow doesn't make her feel strong or vindictive. She’s… disappointed. 

For a moment there, she thought there was an improvement. 

Edward yanks at her arm, far stronger than a normal seven year old. She winces, her shoulder making a sound she’d normally cry over if she was alone. Potter unclamps his fingers, with an apologetic grimace.

“Pansy,” he talks with his mouth half full, “can they please stay?”

_ As if. _

“Sorry,” she rolls her shoulder to ease the ache, “I’ll need to head out after a while. I’ll bring them back home.”

Andy hums in interest, giving a scowl to Edward when he whines, holding out a rather large piece of toast to shut him up. “Any plans?” 

“Nothing like a rendezvous, but I think I’ve found a place for the gala,” Pansy murmurs into her cup. “I’ll head there after I leave.”

“Where?” Potter asks, his head whipping towards her, eyes wide in alarm. “You’re aware of our budget, right?”

“Yes,” she drawls, “isn’t that why I’m looking for a place instead of your planners?” 

Andy snorts, pushing the fork between Edward’s lips, ignoring his lumpy cheeks already full with the food he’s refusing to swallow. Potter sends Andy a vengeful look which she misses as she tries to wipe at her grandson’s mouth.

“I’d like to see the place,” he says, uncharacteristically polite, holding himself back from saying whatever he’s thinking. 

Pansy’s stomach twists inside. “I…” she wets her lips, “I’m not sure about it yet.”

“We can decide together,” Potter dismisses, stabbing his fork on his egg yolk and spreading the yellows everywhere. He shoves it into his mouth, his brows meeting together in the middle as he chews strong enough for them to hear his teeth clink together. 

Potter’s and Edward’s obnoxious chewing are the only sounds for a few uncomfortable minutes. For Pansy, and undoubtedly for Andy, who were raised by people who are dictatorial about table manners, it’s nerve-wracking. 

“How’s Zhenia?” Andy’s voice cuts the silence, Pansy’s head whips in reflex upon hearing a name as familiar as her own. 

It shouldn’t surprise her that Potter’s chewing sent Andy’s mind into a similar path. Unfortunately, she’d been away from that life for a long time and had forgotten to mask her reactions. Too busy being scandalized, her mouth makes a sound, one which she’d give her monthly salary to take back. 

Potter raises his head, quirking an eyebrow in an almost teasing manner, his lip curling to one side. 

She twirls a strand of hair between her fingers as she crosses and uncrosses her legs, sipping twice in a row from her tea as the two of them stare at her with varying degrees of suspicion and disbelief.

“She’s fine, I guess,” she croaks out in the end. “She had always wanted to settle in Bulgaria.”

“Oh?” Andy says, but Pansy is pretty sure it’s out of politeness rather than curiosity. She merely nods to end the topic. 

But Potter has other ideas. “And your father?”

She is used to hostility and suspicion. She’d been asked many questions that didn’t ring any bells. She’d been accused of things she wasn’t aware that happened. 

Her teaspoon clatters on the table. She slams her hand over the spoon to stop it, but her aim is off and she accidentally shoves it towards Potter, who vanishes it into thin air with a careless wave of his hand. 

He looks into her eyes expectantly. 

“He’s happy if mother is happy.”

His face sours. “Do you really not have any idea about how they are?”

“Ignorance is bliss,” she replies, forcing herself to look into his eyes. “You have no idea how uninterested I am about their lives, personal or professional.”

“Do you expect me to believe you don’t know about the new wave your father is leading?”

She scoffs. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that the only thing I expect from you is for you to think of me as a kettle?”

“Why would you want to be a kettle?”

“Why wouldn’t I want to be a kettle? At least people leave it alone.”

“Wouldn’t it be boring?” Edward enquiries. 

“Edward,” she says seriously, making the boy scrunch up his nose, “you’ll soon learn there are worse things than being bored in this life.”

The boy giggles, his hair darkening as he twists his torso and leans back on his elbows, throwing his head back to look at her. “Pansy,” he says, failing to keep a straight face, “you’ve never met Percy, have you?”

“I have actually,” she blows at a strand of hair falling over her nose. “A fu-“ 

She stops herself when Potter straightens up in alarm. “A funky person?” she says as if in a question, wincing at her choice. 

“Yes, he’s funky,” Potter says with conviction. 

“Funky?”

“Yes. Use that when you want to punch someone in the face.”

“Not before or after,” Potter intervenes with a slightly anxious grimace, “you call them funky instead of punching them.”

Andy cuts them off with a sigh. “Children,” she mutters to herself. “Can you behave yourselves while I’m in the bathroom?”

Edward giggles, causing Pansy to pat his head. “See, there’s not much difference between you and your godfather.” She pauses until Andy disappears, grinning at Potter. “Maybe you should take him to school with you? So he learns how to play with others.” 

“I’m not the one who needs to learn-“

“I never said I had any intentions of mingling with the fine society Potter,” she throws her hair back, taking the last toasted bread right from his plate before she bites half of it in one go. She swallows it quickly without chewing. “I’m planning on living in the country all by myself and scheme to ruin your life from afar.”

“What’re you going to do all by yourself?” Potter ignores her threat, looking genuinely curious as he props her chin on his fist.

Pansy doesn't feel comfortable looking at him when his whole focus is on her, staring at her without blinking. 

She fixes her gaze on her knee and imagines that life. 

“I’m going to leave all the doors unlocked.”

“That’s not safe,” he argues, ever the Auror, “Either in our world or the Muggle world.”

“That’s why I want my own world,” she shrugs, clearing her throat when their eyes meet for a tiny moment. “Visits are allowed once in a month, Edward.” 

“Okay,” the kid replies plainly. “Can Harry come too?”

“No.”

“Grandma?”

“Of course.”

“Draco?”

She pauses, throwing Potter a look. “Did you meet him?”

He nods enthusiastically. “He always brings me presents. He’s very rich.”

“Is he? He should share some of it, then.”

“You can ask him,” Edwards offers, “he always gives me when I ask.”

“Teddy!” Potter gasps next to her.

Pansy takes a sip from her water coolly. “Over my cold, dead body.”

Potter lets out a hiss from her left and pokes her in the shoulder. “Don’t say that to him.”

She scowls at him and slaps his hand away. She turns to Edward again. “That doesn’t mean you can have him kill me.”

“Harry? He wouldn’t-“

“No, I meant Draco,” she rolls her eyes, ignoring Potter who is tugging at her arm insistently, “Besides I’ve got a restraining order against him, so if you try to bring him they’ll put you in Azkaban.”

Edward’s eyes go round in wonder, and he grins, her sticky fingers clutching the table.

“Can I get a  _ raining order  _ against Billie?” he asks Potter, who kicks her under the table. Pansy kicks back. 

“It's a  _ restraining order _ ,” Pansy corrects him, “it’s up to Potter whether or not you can get it. But if it was up to me, I’d get it for you.”

“Parkinson,” Potter stands up, his chair squeaking. His hand on her shoulder tightens. “A word.”

Pansy grabs his index finger and bends it backwards, smiling innocently when he yanks it away and shakes his hand in the air to relieve the pain. 

She puts a finger on her mouth when he bares his teeth and beckons him with a finger. He looks like he’s about to hurl her outside but he bends down to her when his eyes catch the sight of Edward and Andy, who both watch their exchange with interest. 

Pansy covers her mouth with her hand and whispers. “I don’t think Andy would’ve liked it if we left him alone.”

He closes his eyes and laughs incredulously, throwing himself back on his chair, shutting his mouth as Andy approaches them with an unreadable expression.

“We’ll be leaving,” is the first thing she says, her mouth pursed. She exchanges glances with Potter, a dialogue occurring between them within seconds.

Pansy nods eagerly to get out of there, jumping to her feet. “I’ll head out as well,” she announces. Potter follows her with his eyes with a determined line to his mouth. She gives him a polite bow. “You don’t need to waste your time. I’ll show the-“

“No, I want to see it,” he cuts her off, “Andy and Teddy are leaving anyway. You can leave your pets here and take them back in the evening.”

“They don’t like staying in places they’re not familiar with.”

Potter gives a meaningful look towards Rowena, sunbathing in the middle of the garden, then to Godric, nipping on the grass. 

Pansy hesitates. 

Rowena lets out a jaw cracking yawn. 

She nods. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry past Christmas to those who are celebrating and happy New Years to everyone! I hope the next year will bring a pleasant time for all of us, and we’ll get what we miss the most 🖤


	12. The Mirror Room

“Okay, take us there.”

“You really don’t need to come,” Pansy leans against the door as if she can block Potter from leaving the house. “I don’t know if it’s even available.”

Potter lifts an unimpressed brow. “You are making me want to come even more with each word.”

“Not every statement is to made to be opposed,” she huffs, “sometimes you just need to-”

“Obey?”

“Accept.”

“It’s not my style.”

She examines him from head to toe, her thoughts clear on her face. “Maybe you should change styles every once in a while.”

He crosses his arms across his chest, not looking insulted in the slightest. “I might. But right now, I simply don’t believe you’re actually going somewhere to look for a place.”

_ Did he have me followed yesterday? _

Pansy stares, trying to make her eyes well up to play the victim but her mind is whirling with possible scenarios to focus. If only Potter looked away for a second, she could stick her fingers in her eyes. 

She leans in. “What do you think I’m going to do?” 

“You have a meeting you need to attend. And since I’m trailing beside you, you’ll have to decide if you’d rather save face or if this meeting is actually that important.”

Pansy lets out a high laugh that is more like a shriek and it echoes around the garden. She slaps a hand over her mouth when she sees the serious expression on his face and straightens up.

“Potter,” she sighs, “the war is over. Don’t you think it’s time to have a rest?”

“It was never over,” he deadpans, “We might not have people duelling in the middle of Diagon Alley-”

“Spare me,” she cuts in coldly. “I cannot survive through another of your rants.”

His mouth curls up in a parody of a smile. “I should save it to someone who cares, I guess.”

She rubs her hand roughly over her face to hide her irritation, closing her eyes to hold on to the last strings of her patience. “Why’re you being so stubborn and bullheaded about this? I’m here, am I not? I’m working for you even when you make it clear you think I’m useless, I haven’t offended anyone but you since I came-”

“You offended Kreacher.”

That sneaky tattletale. She squares her shoulder, leaning back to feign nonchalance. “House elves don’t-”

She cuts herself off but Potter gets it anyway. 

“They count,” he mutters, bending down towards her, “you want to know why I’m insisting on this? Because this is exactly what they say about Teddy because of his condition.”

Pansy’s first instinct is to lash out and lay down all the facts she has of his missteps. She wants to point out he’s using owls as a tool. She wants to talk about how they’ve never apologised to Marietta Edgecombe. She wants to say how he got promotions in Auror’s office because he’s Harry Potter. She wants to scream and tell him how much Andy doesn’t give a shit about house elves and how he should argue with her instead.

Instead, she says, “Fair enough.”

The silence stretches until the voices coming from the portraits become loud.

“If you expect me to-”

“I don’t,” he arches his eyebrows. “A kettle, yeah?.”

“Brilliant,” Pansy claps her hands together just an inch away from his eyes. 

_ He has thicker eyelashes than I do, the bastard. _

“Are we apparating?”

Her mouth turns up in a smile. “Brave man, you are, Potter. My wand can’t even do a Heating Charm.”

“What was your plan before I came along, then?”

She shrugs. “Take the metro. It’s only a twenty minute walk afterwards.”

“The metro is half an hour away from here.”

She sucks her tummy in and pats over her sweater. “How do you think I stay fit?”

“Because you don’t consume anything other than coffee?” he shoots back over his shoulder as he starts to head in the right direction. 

“That’s only true when I’m in your house,” she retorts. “When I’m at home, however, I eat the best food.”

“You cook?”

She considers lying, but then imagines Potter asking her to cook her signature dish or whatever, and promptly dismisses the urge. 

“No, Margaret cooks for me.”

“You’ve got a cook?”

“No, she’s my best friend. Lives upstairs.”

“Margaret,” Potter repeats. 

“Yes, like the minister,” she says, sounding a bit short to be talking to her boss.

“Like the minister.”

“She had a series of flings apparently, which only Margaret knows about.”

_ “Why?” _

Pansy raises her eyebrows and waits for Potter to come to his senses, to no avail. “Because she was the first female minister of Britain. Apparently she was extremely popular those days. Just look around for Harrys now. Bad news for you,” she grins at him, “no one likes her now.”

Potter huffs out a laugh before he averts his eyes heavenwards. “Does she go around telling this when she’s with Muggles?”

“She is a Muggle, Potter,” Pansy waves her hand in the air, “keep up.”

“How did you even meet her?” He jogs after her to catch her, his eyes intent on her face like he doesn’t want to miss any clues if she’s out there tormenting poor Muggles.

“She lives upstairs,” she sighs, “I’ve already told you this. Aren’t you listening or you think I’m lying and you’re waiting for me to slip up?”

“Who’s being paranoid now? I’m just surprised-“

“That I can make friends?” She stops abruptly, causing him to knock into her, catching her by her sleeves so she won’t fall. She juts her chin out, narrowing her eyes. 

“I know you can make friends,” he says, his voice trembling like he’s holding back a laugh, his head tilting to one side. “You were popular those days, weren’t you? You had almost the whole school wear ‘Potter Stinks’ badges.”

“If I could I’d do it again,” she scrunches her face, “maybe it’d get the point across.” She turns her back to keep walking, pleased with herself. She feels his presence behind her left elbow, and her shoulders stay stiff throughout their whole walk to the station as she’s hyper aware of Potter’s attention on her. 

She snaps when he grabs her by the elbow, just before they could get into the station.

She hisses. “Take a fucking hint, would you?”

“Do I really smell that bad?” He asks mildly as he pulls Pansy away from the group of tourists, giving her a pointed look.

Pansy laughs despite herself, then fixes her gaze on the wide eyed children, leaning against the filthy wall.

She feels her face hardening the longer she stares at them. 

“What’s wrong?” Potter leans back as well, putting space between them more suitable in Unctuous Osbert era.

“Nothing,” she shakes her head, “just looking at those happy brats makes me want to steal their chocolate.”

Potter jolts, squinting his eyes in confusion. “You want chocolate?”

“No, I want  _ their _ chocolate.”

“This is exactly what Dudley would’ve said,” he says with a smile on his face that borders on indulgent. 

Pansy’s ears prick. “Who is Dudley?”

Potter looks like he’s regretting opening his mouth but replies in an even tone. “My cousin. From my mother’s side.”

“Obviously,” she rolls her eyes, hoping he won’t get touchy all of a sudden. “We know all about your father’s side. Is he fit?”

Potter laughs, throwing his head back, keeping a hand on his belly. “Parkinson,” he breathes out, “fit is the last thing he is.”

Pansy lets her gaze wander his body for a moment, almost jumping in surprise when she realises Potter’s gaze never strayed from her face. She straightens up. “Runs in the family, I suppose.”

He doesn’t even deign with an answer, with a smirk on his face and starts climbing down the stairs, not looking back to see if she’s following. She thinks about turning back just to annoy him but Potter stops and throws her a look before she can act on it. 

Pansy wants to make it explicit that he’s not her type. But she needs  _ him _ to pick up the subject again so she can fit that into conversation naturally. 

“Just to make it clear-“ she starts as she comes up to him, barely stopping herself when Potter turns to her fully like he’d been waiting for her to speak up. She blinks to clear her vision when he seems too close for comfort, then rubs them when it remains the same. 

Maybe she should get glasses as well.

“What?”

He looks like he knows what she wants to say. He knows she’s embarrassed for getting caught ogling him. And she could wipe that smirk off his face. She could insult him but there’s a part of her who wants to surprise him. She wants to shatter his illusions. Make him rethink his expectations.

She decides to be honest. 

“I’m not back in Britain for a fight, Potter,” she says in a low voice, so low that she’s not sure if he hears it among the voices of hundreds of people around them. 

Potter’s face doesn't change and Pansy doesn't have it in her to say it again. 

“Yet you’re still fighting.” 

The goosebumps that erupt all over her body have nothing to do with the dull half smile on Potter’s face. It’s the sudden icy wind that sneaks between the cracks of her scarf. It’s the nauseating screech of the tires a few streets down. 

It’s the desolation. 

“Not by choice,” she clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I would end it now if I could.”

“You’re here to end the fight.”

Pansy hates the sarcastic tone. 

“I’m here to end my fight,” she tells him flatly, “I don’t care about your or anyone else’s fight.”

Potter taps his foot on the floor, folding his arms across his chest. He cranes his neck like she’s giving him a headache. “What’s your point?” 

She takes one step closer. His eyes switch downwards reflexively to look at her. 

His eyes are-

“Don’t use me to fuel your fight.”

“Neither I nor you get a say in that,” he sniffs, “people are not convinced about your perceived innocence-“

She cuts in. “The same people who shamed you publicly for being a liar when you were a kid?” 

Potter stays silent and Pansy, with great hardship, bites back a comment. “I don’t want a fight,” she repeats, “So, I’m asking you a favour. Let me be.”

***

The rest of their journey is blessedly silent but far away from awkward as they’re both lost in their own thoughts. Potter doesn’t ask where they’ll be getting off, follows obediently when Pansy beckons him with a hand. 

Potter’s face gains its colour more as they walk under the chilly wind, tucking his hands in the pockets of his coat. His shoulders tuck in as if to protect his ears and face from the cold. 

“Is it far away?” 

“Only half an hour,” Pansy says, howling with laughter when he halts in shock. “I’m joking, it’s only five minutes away.”

“Funny.”

“I know,” she shrugs, winking at him, “only one of my good qualities if you care to look.” She points a finger at him when he opens his mouth, “Don’t you dare object, Potter.”

Potter blinks furiously, the wind slapping against his face, making it impossible for him to talk even if he decides to ignore Pansy’s orders. 

“Whose house is it?” he asks, his eyes squinting to take in the whole mansion. It’s white and stately with columns the size of two elephants’ feet tied together holding the structure up. A dilapidated yet ornate fountain is the center of attention in the lawn, and the sunlight bathes the house in hues of ivory. 

Pansy sucks on her bottom lips, keeping her gaze on the estate, feeling like she’s once again twelve years old and in front of Snape after she had dared Goyle to hex Daphne Greengrass. 

“It belongs to an old pureblood family.”

He swats at the air. 

“They’re foreigners,” she grits through her teeth. “They allow renting within the Wizarding Community for a short amount of time.”

“I’d like to talk to them personally.”

She sinks her nails into her palm and pastes a smile on her face. “I’ll get you their contact address once we head back.”

He meets her eyes evenly. “Let’s head in.”

“It’s called The White House,” she blurts out to break the awkward silence as she tries to unlock the door with the damned wand. 

“That’s quite bland.”

Pansy swirls around to glare at him. “Did you know the presidential building of the American Muggles was built after  _ this _ house?”

His eyes sift beyond the outer iron wrought gate to the gardens, to the large front door, and then back to Pansy. He shrugs. “I don't see what’s so impressive about it.”

She takes a deep breath and focuses all her feelings into unlocking the entrance gate.

It fails.

“Use this.”

Pansy slowly turns back, her eyes carefully fixed to somewhere over his shoulder. She sees him holding up a wand in her periphery and her heart lurches in its place for a moment. 

“I’m not allowed to use any other wand.”

“No one’s around.”

She purposefully finds his eyes. He gives her a warm smile that even reaches his eyes. All warmth leaves Pansy’s body. “You are.”

Potter’s smile dims, his eyes unfocusing and his arm lowers. His lips part, his tongue peeking from the corner. 

Pansy’s heart thuds but it has nothing to do with attraction. 

It’s fear. She’s once again the mouse. 

“I thought the war was over,” Potter speaks up when she turns back to her task. “Isn’t that what you said?”

She pauses, her eye twitching but refuses to give in to his taunt. She ignores the sound of his foot tapping the floor and his impatient grunts and shuffling. 

“I’m not out to get you,” he murmurs behind her. It leaves a sour taste in her mouth to hear him say this, but despite the sudden overwhelming urge to cry she forces herself to nod. 

He speaks up once more when she doesn't say anything else.“Why don’t I try?”

“You can’t,” she snipes, “you have to be a Pureblood.”

“Charming. Gives the correct message.”

It clicks open and she kicks it with enough force to make it slam to the wall. 

“No one has to know.”

“That’s not the point.”

“For fuck’s sake,” she waves the wand towards his person, making him flinch back. “You suck all my energy.”

“Take care of that thing, yeah,” he murmurs, his grip firm on her wrist, guiding it downwards. “You look like Teddy with a Delumintor.”

“Still more graceful than you,” she flips her hair over her shoulder. Taking the biggest breath she’d taken in weeks, she steps into the lawn. She tries to ignore the flutter in her chest and the tightness in her lungs as she tries to take everything once again, as if it’s the first and last. She feels Potter’s sharp eyes on her, scrutinising her every move, every tick, every blink but there is a weight crushing her bones, as heavy as an Imperius, impaling her.

Before she knows it, she is standing in front of the door with a bronze knocker, fashioned in the shape of a dragon’s head, its jaws open. A ring hangs from its neck, and Pansy swallows the bile that rises in her throat as she lifts her hand and raps on the door thrice. 

It takes a moment for the house to recognise her, and the marble eyes of the dragon glows like it’s a prophecy orb. With an almighty yawn, the door opens inward, revealing the dark hallway.

Pansy wants to say something but she can’t move her lips. She wants to walk forward. She wants to turn back to her apartment but finds that she can’t do any of that. The minutes, or seconds, stretch on and Potter remains silent, or it might be just that Pansy doesn’t hear him. 

She snaps out of it when Potter waves a hand in front of her face, looking at her intently over his glasses. 

“This place is too small.”

“Move back,” she says, her voice hoarse. She clears her throat, stepping to the side without touching him. A part of her wants to cave in to Potter and find another place but there’s a person shaped hole in her heart that looks a lot like herself and she wants to fill it to the brim until it stops hurting. 

She doesn’t want to run anymore. 

“It is not small,” she explains, as she walks through the waterfall. “This is just the entree. Security check.”

She cranes her neck back out when he doesn't show up. “What’re you waiting for? I thought-“

She stops herself when she spots his ghastly face, staring at her without seeing her, his irises almost disappearing. “Potter,” she calls for him, not daring to go near and touch him. “What happened?”

“What’s this thing?” 

“This?” She frowns, looking at the silver threads of magic woven into a spidery web which separates them. Her fingers disappear from her view when she waves at him through the thing, glowing layer. “It’s a portal.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Yes,” she stresses. “It’s two sided. They confisticated the one way portals about a hundred years ago. You’d know if you-“

“Listened to Binns.”

“It’s literally how he died,” Pansy lets out a surprised laugh, “How can you not know that?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re yanking my wand right now.”

“Go ask Granger-Weasley the next time you see her,” she shrugs and holds out her hand. “Now, are you coming?”

Potter hesitates for a fraction of a second but grabs her hand and she yanks him in before he can change his mind. 

She lets go immediately when he emerges, feeling satisfaction run through her veins as Potter tries to get back to his feet with his snowy boots.

Once he steadies himself, he opens his mouth like he’s about to yell at her, but closes it with a snap. Pansy hides her growing smile as his eyes widen. 

The flame from the everlasting lanterns lined against the wall reflects the light from the black and white chequered granite floor. High vault ceilings taper above their heads in a baroque dome, and Pansy’s always appreciated the way the sculptured figurines on the ceiling inspired awe from the guests.

_ Wait till you see the ball room, Potter, you’re going to lose your mind. _

“Who’s that?”

His gaze catches on the statue in the middle of the hall and he takes an uncertain step towards it. 

“I don’t know,” she confesses, “but some claim it’s Slytherin, or Gryffindor. Ridiculous, since this is far older than those two.”

“Merlin?” 

She meets his eyes for a second. “Adam.”

Potter lets out a startled laugh, then rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“We could replace it with that statute of you in the Ministry,” she offers with a sly smile, “Nimbus 2000 might be a little out of fashion but-“

“Oh,” he gasps, “you’ve seen the one in the courtroom.”

She tries but her smile slips for a moment. She restores it immediately. “If it’s not glamorous enough for you we could ask for the one with the dragon from Harry Potter Museum.”

“Let’s just stick to saying he’s anonymous.”

She nods amiably. 

“Shall we go in?” She gestures to the gate to the stairs that leads to the ballroom. Potter follows her after one last look at the statue. 

His mouth turns downward when he takes in the ballroom.

“This place is too small.”

She heaves a deep breath. “It’s not,” she keeps her tone casual, ignoring the urge to land a fist to his nose, “It stretches to fit the amount of people there is.”

Potter’s eyes lighten up with interest as he walks around the room, stopping in front of some portraits with a thoughtful frown before he sits in front of one after he stares at it for a few minutes. 

She walks towards him, tilting her to the side as she examines the painting, trying to see what he sees to make him look so defeated. 

It’s a stag and a doe, sleeping in the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. 

Even Pansy knows not to make a nasty comment when someone stares at the place they died in. 

He inclines his head towards her, his eyes obscured by his eyelashes. “Do you know who painted this?”

“I’ve never seen it,” she says after a consideration, “but I can look into it.”

“No, no,” he shakes his head, pushing himself to his feet without another glance, “we can replace this with something else, right?”

“Sure.”

He nods, a grim line to his mouth. “How much will this place cost?”

“Five thousand, I suppose,” she murmurs, biting on her tongue not to say anything about how much they’ll have to pay the elves because of Granger-Weasley.

“No way.”

“Andy said fine-“

His mouth curls in mock, something she’s not used to seeing when he talks about Andy. “Andy is a rich girl-“

“You cannot find anywhere cheaper than this, even if you’re Harry Potter-“

“I know who I am, stop saying my-“

“I’m not fond of it either but if i have to hear it all the time so do you-“

“It’s more about hearing it from your mouth.”

The silence that follows is deafening, and it stings even more when his scrunches up in regret. 

“What shall I call you?” She shuffles closer, swallowing to get rid of the lump in her throat. “The-Boy-Who-Lived?” She grins widely when he winces. “Or do you prefer Chosen One?”

Pansy braces himself for a harsh blow, so she’s completely disarmed when he says, “I’d rather you call me just Harry.”

“Just Harry?” she blurts out, his face swimming in front of her eyes. 

“No, no,” he holds up his hands in the air, waving them like a nervous child. “Harry.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s your name-”

“Merlin’s beard, Parkinson,” he throws his hand in the air, “My first name only, alright?”

She swallows. “I know you’re being nice to me because you’re afraid I’ll say something to Andy,” she forces a smile, “and it makes me sick to my stomach.”

Potter presses his lips into a thin line like he’s holding back a laugh. Pansy doesn’t understand what’s so funny. 

“Is this your idea of someone treating you nice?”

She shrugs. “Coming from you.” 

They stare at each other, Pansy feeling queasy with each passing second because she starts to understand.  _ He means it. _

It’s a funny old world, which is about to be split all the way through: before and after, one and zero, disallowed and allowed. 

Pansy needs to remember this moment. 

“Fine,” she sniffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest, repressing the urge to hide her face and run somewhere peaceful to let a scream out. “I, on the other hand, do not give you permission to use my name.”

“Fine,” he dismisses, as if he wouldn’t use her name even if it meant she’d resign. “Still, I don’t think this place is appropriate. We need an area where we can hold a speech and host a dinner party.”

“It’s on the other side of this corridor,” she says, her excitement diffusing into her tone, “it’s the Mirror Room.”

She floats to the archway, her feet barely touching the floor. She tries to tone it down, but she can’t stop herself from vibrating while Potter keeps craning his head side to side to take a peek at everything. 

He snorts when he takes a step in, “Everything is literal about this house, huh?”

“Don’t be close minded,” Pansy admonishes him and jerks her chin towards the stand. “What are you waiting for? You’ll be the one of the lucky ones to get on there that night.”

Potter sends him a suspicious look but pulls himself up there without using the stairs, giving her a solid view of his backside. 

“What’s so great about this?”

“This, Potter,” she jumps up on her toes a few times, “is the reason you’re going to thank me.”

He leans forward to rest his elbows on the stand and fixes his gaze on her, half a smile on his face. “How so?”

“When someone gets on there,” she starts, her eyes firmly on her boots, “the audience sees them in their most memorable moment.” She shrugs. “I thought it would be a great way to remind people of what you’ve done.”

Potter doesn’t lash out saying it’s Dark Magic, he doesn’t demand to know how she knows about this, he doesn’t say he refuses to use this place. 

He asks, “What do you see?”

Pansy, raises her head, keeping her face lax and emotionless while her eyes drift behind him to meet the inescapable end. 

There, Potter cradles Cedric Diggory’s lifeless head to his chest. 

She says, “You don’t want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well a month has passed but we're finally back! sorry to keep you guys waiting. i hope it was worth the wait. <3
> 
> (Also we both had chosen the same line for our favourite part for this chapter. can you guess?)

**Author's Note:**

> we're spiffed to get started on this harry/pansy story that we wrote purely because we wanted to read a story like this! we hope you like it!


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